Star Wars: Scoundrels (17 page)

“He didn’t say anything about it,” Han said. “But you heard Rachele. Even the top locals didn’t know. He probably didn’t, either.”

“Maybe,” Lando said. “But we know now. You still want to do this?”

“It’d be nice to have Jabba off my back for a change,” Han said. “Credits are the only thing that’ll do that.”

“So you’re going to trade angry Hutts for angry Falleen.” Lando shook his head. “Not sure how good a deal that is.”

“You play the hand you’ve got the best you can,” Han said, frowning. “You trying to get me to bail on the job?”

“I’m trying to make sure you’re not in over your head,” Lando said. “You’re a smuggler, Han. I’m a gambler. We’re not con artists or thieves.” He jerked his thumb toward the other end of the suite. “As far as I know, none of
them
has ever done anything on this scale, either.”

He was right, Han knew. This whole thing was rapidly climbing to heights he’d never dreamed of when he’d gotten it rolling. The fact that he was having to trust this many other people to know what they were doing just made it worse.

Still, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to trust people. Usually it worked out all right.

Usually.

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But together we’ve got all the skills we need to pull it off. All we need is the right plan, and a little confidence.”

“Both of which you’re going to supply?”

“With help from Chewie and Rachele and Bink,” Han said. “And you, if you want to put in your half credit’s worth.”

“Of course,” Lando said with one of those innocent looks he did so well. “We’re old friends here to do a job together, right?” He lifted a finger. “One other thing, before I forget. Assuming everything goes according to plan, I want the blackmail files as my share.”

Han stared. “You want what?”

“You heard me,” Lando said. “I know a guy who’ll pay good money for them.”

“We won’t have a cryodex to toss in with the deal,” Han warned.

“He won’t care,” Lando assured him. “But the guy’s a little touchy. It’d be better for me to approach him alone than for us to do it as a group.”

“Uh-huh,” Han said, nodding as the pieces fell together. “So which Hutt is it?”

Lando made a face. “Durga, if you must know,” he said reluctantly. “He’s still pretty steamed at Xizor and Black Sun over the whole Ylesia thing.”

“That happened a lot at Ylesia.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lando said with only a hint of sarcasm. “Deal?”

Han thought it over. Even given Durga’s humiliation at Ylesia, he seriously doubted the Hutt would pay more than a few thousand credits for a set of unreadable data cards.

But it was entirely possible that Lando knew more about Durga’s current situation and mood than he did. If he thought his chances were worth giving up his share of Eanjer’s millions, he was welcome to give it a shot. Han certainly had no interest in adding another Hutt to his own list of potentially unsatisfied customers. “Sure, why not?” he said. “Cards instead of credits.”

“Thanks,” Lando said. He took a last swallow from his mug and leaned back. “So. Tell me about this plan.”

It had been a long day, and as was his custom, Villachor had gone outside onto the balcony of his private suite for a few minutes of quiet and relaxation.

It was a cool, calm night, with no clouds and only a fitful breeze. The lights of Iltarr City glittered around him—around
and
above, since most of the buildings at the edges of his estate were much taller than his own modest four-story mansion. On most nights he reveled in the view, imagining himself to be on the dais in some Old Republic fortress, giving orders to an army of retainers standing around him in their humble silence.

Tonight, though, the dark light-flecked towers seemed to brood down on him. And instead of a lordly master, he felt like a target in the center of the practice range.

Something was going on out there. Something was lurking in the city streets, perhaps gazing at one of his gates at this very moment. Something that could potentially bring down everything he’d bribed and blackmailed and murdered to create on this world and in this sector.

And he had no idea what it was.

The indicator panel on his railing blinked a request: Sheqoa, his head of security, was at the door to his suite, requesting admittance. Flipping up the top of his armrest, Villachor keyed him in, making his usual private bet with himself that
this
time he would hear the man’s entry onto the balcony behind him.

Once again he lost the bet. Former Imperial shock troopers, after all, weren’t known for making unnecessary noise.

“I have a report from Riston, sir,” Sheqoa said, his voice coming from barely two meters away. He’d reached the balcony, and then some. “He says Crovendif’s glitterstim is the genuine article, and he’s pretty sure it didn’t come from Kessel.”

“
Pretty
sure?” Villachor countered. “What is this
pretty sure
Sithspit?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sheqoa said, his voice respectful but firm. “But Riston says there’s no way to be a hundred percent sure, not with something grown organically. Too much variation in the spiders themselves. All he can get is an eighty-five-percent certainty.”

Villachor scowled, his first impulse to get up, march down to Riston’s precious little lab, and shake the analyst’s thin neck until he came up with something more useful.

But that wouldn’t gain him anything more than momentary satisfaction. Sheqoa’s primary job was Villachor’s protection, but over the years the big ex-commando had also taken on the unofficial task of acting as buffer between his boss and the rest of the staff.

Which was probably a good thing. When there was something to be gained by threats or violence, Sheqoa was right there at Villachor’s side, handing him weapons or doing the job himself. But when there wasn’t, he would likewise be there to keep his boss from wasting people. Especially competent people.

If Riston said there was nothing more to be gleaned from Crovendif’s sample, he was probably right.

With an effort, Villachor forced away his reflexive thoughts of murder. “What about Crovendif himself?” he asked instead.

“He’s worked for us for ten years, eight as a seller, two as a street manager,” Sheqoa said. “Decent record. Nothing spectacular.”

“Smart enough to pull a scam like this by himself?”

He could feel Sheqoa’s frown. “He’s barely bright enough to pull his correct percentage,” the big man said. “You think this is a scam?”

“I think the timing is highly suspicious,” Villachor growled. “Vigo Qazadi shows up; and then, barely nine days later, someone pops up and offers to sell us glitterstim below Black Sun’s rates?”

Sheqoa was silent a moment, apparently trying to digest that. “Got to be the galaxy’s unluckiest scammer,” he said slowly. “Odds of that happening are … really low.”

Villachor glared out at the city lights around him, once again forcing down the urge to strangle. He hadn’t expected Sheqoa to understand the subtleties of the situation, and the security chief had lived right down to his expectations.

This wasn’t coincidence. Not a chance. Either someone was tweaking Qazadi and Black Sun, which was an extraordinarily foolish thing to do … or else the mysterious stranger was one of Qazadi’s people, and the glitterstim offer was a test.

A shiver ran up Villachor’s back. A test. But a test of what? Villachor’s loyalty? Fine—Villachor could pass any such test.

But which direction was he expected to jump? Was he supposed to tell Qazadi about the glitterstim peddler and wait for the vigo to tell him what to do? That might show weakness and indecision on Villachor’s part, hardly qualities Prince Xizor wanted in one of his sector chiefs. Should he instead look into the matter privately, bringing it to Qazadi’s attention only after the investigation was complete? But if Qazadi caught him midway through the process, it could look as if he were planning to make a deal behind Black Sun’s back. That would be the path to a quick, anonymous grave.

What if there
was
no right answer? What if Xizor had already passed judgment on him and this glitterstim test was nothing more than a way of letting Villachor choose the path of his own entrapment? Xizor hardly needed an excuse to eliminate one of his subordinates, but he might do it like this purely for the entertainment of watching the doomed man squirm in a net from which there was no escape.

Such thoughts should never be simply dismissed
, Qazadi had said about Villachor’s qualms at their first meeting,
for I do not leave Imperial Center without great cause
.

Villachor scowled. Qazadi had explained that the reasons for his visit were threefold: to remove the blackmail files from Imperial Center, thereby throwing off Vader and Xizor’s other enemies; to get Qazadi himself out of range of various intrigues those same enemies were preparing to launch; and to use the files to generate a few more reluctant slaves from among Iltarr City’s elite and the dignitaries who would soon be arriving on Wukkar for the Festival of Four Honorings.

Three reasons to make the trip from Imperial Center. If there were three, why not four? Could the fourth reason be to engineer Villachor’s destruction?

And then there was the incident at the Lulina Crown Hotel, where Qazadi’s assistant Aziel had been at the center of some strange semi-attack. “Is there anything new on the Lulina Crown incident?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Sheqoa said, his tone oddly reluctant. “Not really.”

“Not
really
?” Villachor echoed sharply. “What does
not really
mean?”

“The police have closed the file,” Sheqoa said, sounding pained. “They’ve written it off as a prank.”

Villachor shifted halfway around in his chair and glared up at the other. “A
prank
?” he demanded. “A bomb goes off in a hotel hallway and it’s a
prank
?” He turned back around, glaring at the city lights as he pulled out his comlink. Apparently it was time to remind Police Commissioner Hildebron of the level of service that Black Sun’s bribe credits had bought from him.

“It was Commissioner Hildebron’s order,” Sheqoa said doggedly. “After he received a call from Master Qazadi.”

Villachor froze, the comlink halfway to his lips. “Master
Qazadi
called off the investigation?”

“So it appears.”

Slowly, Villachor returned the comlink to his belt. But that was insane. Why in the galaxy would Qazadi call off the investigators? Aziel was a fellow Black Sun official, a close colleague, and—as far as Villachor had been able to tell—as close to a friend as Falleen ever got. By all logic, Qazadi should be down at police HQ right now, pumping Hildebron’s office full of pheromones and insisting that the threat against his colleague and the cryodex key codes be neutralized—

Villachor’s throat tightened. Of course. The cryodex codes.

Because being a Black Sun boughtman didn’t mean Hildebron wasn’t good at his job. He was. And a truly proper investigation might easily expose the fact that Aziel was in Iltarr City as guardian of half of the key codes that activated the cryodex Qazadi had locked up in his suite.

Of course, an improper investigation might lead to the theft of those same codes if whoever was trying to steal them decided to give it another try. But apparently Qazadi was willing to risk that.

Maybe he was right to do so. Aziel had to come to Marblewood to assist Qazadi in activating the cryodex before each of Villachor’s blackmail sessions, but the cryodex and the files themselves were never at any risk. If Aziel’s codes were stolen or destroyed, it would simply mean Villachor couldn’t use the files against potential targets. An inconvenience, but hardly a serious problem.

But whether the attack had failed or been a prank, the fact of the matter was that a Black Sun official had had his evening ruined in the middle of Villachor’s territory. That wasn’t something that could simply be ignored or swept away.

And if the glitterstim was a test, maybe this was, too. “Do we have anyone over at the hotel?” he asked.

“No,” Sheqoa said. “I thought Master Qazadi ordered us to stay away.”

“That was before his people were attacked,” Villachor growled. “I want a squad in place over there by midnight. Put at least two men on that same floor and the others in whatever rooms they can get above and below Lord Aziel’s suite.”

“Yes, sir,” Sheqoa said hesitantly. “May I remind you, sir, that we’re going to be stretched thin as it is for Festival crowd control? Removing a full squad from our roster will make it worse.”

“I don’t care,” Villachor said tartly. “As long as we keep a full quota on the vault, that’s all that matters. If someone wants to use the Festival as cover to sneak into the house and steal a few spoons, he’s welcome to try. Anything like that can be dealt with later.”

“Understood,” Sheqoa said, clearly still not happy but knowing not to argue the point further. “I don’t suppose you could persuade Master Qazadi to bring Aziel and the others here instead? It would make security a lot easier.”

Villachor felt his stomach tighten. Yes, it certainly would. Villachor had in fact pointed out that very fact to Qazadi at their first meeting.

But Qazadi had brushed off the suggestion, invoking a Black Sun policy of keeping the blackmail files and the cryodex coding separated unless one of the files was in the process of being read. Villachor had listened to that reasoning, nodded politely, and pretended to accept it, even though he wasn’t any more satisfied than Sheqoa was. It had always struck him as less an explanation than a thinly plated excuse.

Maybe there was another reason for Qazadi to keep Aziel away from Marblewood. Maybe Aziel wasn’t just here to handle the key codes, but was also waiting in the wings to move in and take over as Villachor’s successor once Villachor failed Qazadi’s test.

If that was the case, it would hardly be in Villachor’s best interests to knock himself out stretching his resources to protect Aziel.

Tests within tests within tests. And Villachor still didn’t know which way Qazadi wanted him to jump.