Conquistador (15 page)

Or so the Rolfes and their allies thought,
Giovanni mused. It
had
worked, all the other times the method was used.
But this time, they have elevated a Prime with wider ambitions.

Batyushkov glanced at his nephew; the young man nodded. That meant the Colletta's office was clear of bugs planted by the Commission's police, or any of the other Families, as far as he could tell.

“So, Giovanni Salvatorovich, I find that I must apologize,” Dimitri said.

He knocked back another glass of the icy vodka; strictly speaking, Giovanni should have matched him drink for drink, but he knew his capacity and the Russian's, and contented himself with a sip of white wine instead. A minor breach of Slavic drinking etiquette and loss of face was preferable to losing his wits.

“A blunder occurred,” Giovanni agreed tactfully. “There is blame enough to go around. As we grow closer to the time of action, the risks increase; they are proportionate to the stakes for which we play.”

Dimitri nodded. “You understand, these people we deal with FirstSide may be my compatriots—my former countrymen—but they are not my subordinates. I—we—must persuade and convince them.” He sighed, and chewed meditatively for a moment. “That is not merely a matter of money. Money is very persuasive, but for hardheaded, realistic men—”

Translation: a bunch of paranoid
a' pinna, Giovanni added to himself.

“—to be persuaded of the reality of a Gate to another world, this is difficult.” A rumbling chuckle. “I did not believe it myself, until I stepped through. I thought that the wealthy
Amis
were, how do you say, putting one over on me.”

The Russian spread his hands in a deprecatory gesture: “And we cannot, of course, show them directly—anyone who sees the Gate is stuck here in the Commonwealth. It is a system with a built-in fail-safe; Sergei here has been instrumental in convincing them. As of course have your animal specimens, even more than the pictures and videos. Videos can be faked; living animals which are extinct cannot. And, after all, they
have
sent us those personnel we requested. That is the key to our plan.”

“If there are no more desertions from the Strike Force,” the Colletta said dryly. “If any of
those,
and the weapons they have stolen, are discovered . . .”

The Russian winced slightly. “Yes, well, the
speznatz
discipline is hard for primitives. It will be better after Operation Downfall is complete and we need no longer rely upon them.”

“If we get that far,” Giovanni Colletta said.

If we can assemble a force strong enough to take the Gate by surprise. And if we can make it stick afterward . . . then
we
will be the rulers of the Commonwealth. Then there will be changes.

He went on with a smile: “Which of course we will. The time to strike is near. We have only to get through these few months, and it will all be over.”

Sergei leaned forward. “With your permission, Uncle Dimitri.” The Batyushkov nodded, and the young man went on: “Our . . . associates on FirstSide do, however, have one request. One additional request.”

Giovanni smiled behind gritted teeth. If they wanted more money, he would simply tell them that that well was dry.

“They wish to send through several scientists, suitably disguised. To study the Gate.”

At that, the Colletta laughed and waved a hand. “By all means,” he said. “Let them study to their heart's content.”

The Gate was incomprehensible. That was well established.

“I think you know my associates,” John Rolfe said, his voice smooth and friendly. He raised a hand to right and left, toward the men who sat on either side of him behind the long polished table. “Solomon Pearlmutter and Salvatore Colletta.”

Think of them as my good and bad angels,
he didn't say aloud; his mind threw up a vision of a miniature Sol in a white robe and a tiny red-suited Salvo with a pitchfork, standing on his shoulders and whispering into his ears.

“Yes,” said Ralph Barnes, sometime professor of physics. “I think I met your kid at Stanford.” He nodded to Pearlmutter, and then turned to Colletta. “And your goons doped my drink and dragged me here.”

He was a burly man in a tie-dyed shirt, jeans and moccasins, with long brown hair falling to his shoulders and a trimmed beard. Rolfe thought the whole ensemble looked ridiculous—something like a flaming pansy crossed with a Viking warrior—but apparently it was the fashion among the younger set back on FirstSide these days, and Barnes was in his mid-twenties.

Young to be on the verge of fame,
he thought.
In any profession but physics.
From what Sol had told him, most great physicists did their best groundbreaking work between twenty and thirty.
And I suppose it doesn't look much more ridiculous than what some of my Cavalier ancestors affected at court.
The haircut was about what Charles I's courtiers had worn, beard ditto, and at least Barnes wasn't sporting high heels, lace and beauty patches.

“Yes, I think I could come up with something to explain the phenomenon,” Barnes went on. “Now that I've had some time and equipment to study the Gate. Outta sight.”

He closed his eyes, obviously deep in thought. Then he opened them again, staring across the room at John Rolfe. The master of the Commonwealth forced himself to relax.

By God, to
control
the Gate! To know what it is, and how to make more!
Vistas of fire and glory opened beyond the eyes of his mind, worlds for the taking—

“Nice place you've got here,” the scientist went on. “Too bad I won't see much of it.”

Rolfe's eyes narrowed, and he felt a stirring of unease; he hadn't commanded men for thirty years without learning how to read them. The beard and hair emphasized the man's massive foursquare build, the thick forearms, and the hands like a builder's or farmer's, spadelike and callused. Not at all what he'd thought of when the word “professor” came to mind, but Sol's agents had been extremely careful. It wasn't easy to find a young, brilliant researcher who wouldn't be too badly missed, but Barnes had a reputation for eccentricity, as well as genius. For it wouldn't be utterly out of character for him to . . . what was the phrase FirstSide?
Drop out?

“Real nice,” Barnes went on, nodding to the tall windows that let in a scent of sea and flowers on the warm summer air. “Pity I'm not going to see much of it. It'd be interesting.”

“And why aren't you going to be seeing more of it, Dr. Barnes?” Rolfe said in a soft, chill tone, leaning forward with hand over hand and his elbows braced on the polished rosewood of his desk.

Without false modesty he knew that he was a strong-willed man, and a frightening one when he chose to be. He'd daunted brave men before this. Now his eyes found the younger man's brown gaze, and saw no fear there at all, and a stubbornness to match his own. Pearlmutter sighed and put a hand to his forehead, muttering something like
gevalt
under his breath.

“Because I'm not going to give a fascist bastard like you that sort of power, which means you'll probably kill me,” Barnes said cheerfully. “Maybe I can't do anything about you getting
this
world in your clutches, but I'm not going to give you an infinite series of them to play with.”

“Infinite?” Rolfe said, raising a brow.

“Of course. Now that I've seen the Gate, the only thing that makes sense is that the Big Bang was really a quantum fluctuation, the beginning of a universe in a series; in fact that explains the dark matter problem. A standing waveform drawing on zero energy to—Oh, you're a
tricky
fascist bastard, aren't you? Nearly got me going there.”

Rolfe smiled thinly. “More tricky than you know, Dr. Barnes. I know you feel an understandable resentment at being, ah, shanghaied here”—a blaze of pure rage confronted him, all the stronger for being wordless. He'd counted on the man's curiosity overcoming anything else, combined with promises of rewards. Now he'd have to fall back on threats, and he didn't think those would work very well. He went on, his voice suave—“and normally we don't do that, unless someone stumbles across the secret of the Gate and it's the only alternative to killing him. But we've never been able to get many first-rate scientists here. You'll understand we're anxious to develop some control, some knowledge, of the Gate. After all, our lives and fortunes depend on its functioning.” He turned the smile charming. “And I assure you I know better than to deny an able man his share.”

Barnes snorted and crossed his arms. “No dice. Hey, asshole, a question for you: Did you ever take lessons from Nixon?”

Rolfe blinked his eyes closed for a second, controlling his temper. “No, in fact, Dr. Barnes, I did not. For one thing I'm not a Quaker, and neither were any of my ancestors. And I wasn't in the navy.”

“Naw, your folks were slave traders, right?” Barnes said. “I said it once: No dice.” After a moment that stretched: “And yeah, you can call in those goons outside to kill me, or work me over. That won't get you much physics done, man. And beating me up won't, either. It ain't like digging a ditch or picking cotton on your fucking plantation.”

“Tobacco,” Rolfe corrected absently. “My family grew tobacco and raised horses. Well, that raises the question of why I
should
bother to keep you around, Dr. Barnes . . . if you're not useful as a physicist. Or perhaps you could be useful in another career . . . gold mining, perhaps?”

“Yeah, send me to the mines. Lot of good
that
will do you.”

A quiet chuckle came from the corner. “I think I better get involved here, Cap'n.”

Barnes's eyes swiveled around to the small, dark, graying man sitting in the corner. The scientist still didn't look frightened, but he did look wary—the way a man might, confronted with a small, swift, poisonous snake.

“Thing is, Professor,” Salvatore Colletta said, “the cap'n, he's a
civile
—a gentleman; and Sol here, he's the kind who'll pick a bug up and throw it out the window insteada swattin' it. I ain't, you know? That's got its drawbacks, which surprised me when I found out, but it sort of gives me advantages too. Like maybe, yeah, a working-over with the rubber hoses wouldn't get you doing this physics stuff right; you could go through the motions and say nothin' was working. On the other hand . . . maybe there's organs you're fond of? Or people? Your mother still alive,
dottore?
”

Barnes began to come out of the chair and froze as Colletta's hand moved with the speed of a striking mantis. An automatic pistol appeared in it, the muzzle gaping like a cavern and pitted with use; the rest of his short, slight body stayed relaxed, lounging at ease. Rolfe gave a small quiet snort. Sometimes in the midst of the inter-Family maneuvering, you forgot just how deadly the little man could be in person. That would be a mistake.

“He's no use to us dead, Salvo,” Rolfe said. To Pearlmutter, in a soothing tone: “Don't worry, Sol. Relax.”

Rolfe sighed, resting his chin on his thumbs and thinking.
Let's see . . .
“The problem is, I think the good doctor here would call my bluff,” he said at last.

Colletta shot him a resentful black-eyed glance. “I ain't bluffin', Cap'n.”

“Yes, but I would be,” Rolfe replied.

Salvatore Colletta gave a sour grunt, holstered the gun and stood, adjusting his suit jacket and brushing lint off one sleeve, and taking a cigarette out of a gold case. He shrugged and lit it, puffing and going on: “Then I've got things to do. See ya, Cap'n. That soft heart of yours is gonna kill you someday.”

Colletta left; Pearlmutter followed, shrugging and spreading his hands as he passed in a well-I-did-my-best gesture. Rolfe turned to Barnes, his mouth quirking slightly.

“I'm a ruthless man, Dr. Barnes,” he said. “And if I thought it expedient, I would have you killed without hesitation; by the time I was your age, I'd seen and inflicted enough death that it became fairly trivial to me. There are, however, limits . . . at least for me. I've never found Salvo to have any.”

“I can believe it,” Barnes said. He cocked his head. “Why didn't you try bluffing me?”

Rolfe made a single spare, elegant gesture. “Respect.”

“Respect?”

“I knew that you wouldn't cave in to a simple threat, and there would be no point in it if I wasn't prepared to follow through.” He cocked his head and examined Barnes again, openly this time. “Experience does confer some benefits—the ability to tell the difference between bluster and the real thing among them.”

Barnes looked at him for a moment, then nodded grudgingly. “Well, you're a fascist bastard, but I suppose you draw the line at torture.”

Rolfe smiled, and Barnes blinked in startled alarm. “Oh, not at all. I've had men tortured—during the war, for example. If it was a choice between my men's lives and the Geneva Convention . . . well, there's a time an officer should walk around the hill and let someone like Salvo handle things. But I don't inflict pain for amusement, or to settle a grudge. Or just to get something I'd like, but can do without.”

“You
are
a bastard,” Barnes said.

“Yes, Dr. Barnes, I am. But you'd better hope that I'm a long-lived one. Salvo doesn't like being balked, and unlike me he
does
hold grudges.”

He chuckled a little at the brief look of alarm that passed over the young physicist's face.
And good-cop bad-cop may be a cliché, but it works.
“And what will you do here, if I let you live? Please abandon any thoughts of teaching at
our
university, if you won't cooperate over the Gate.”