CHAPTER 11

It was nearly evening when Rance pulled them off the highway and down a lengthy set of cliffside switchbacks to the picturesque town nestled on a crescent-shaped beach. Despite the two decades that Kovalic had spent on Nova, his ventures outside of Salaam had largely been limited to the cabin he’d built on a lake several hours away. Unless you counted trips to military bases, which one probably shouldn’t.

Maybe he should have taken more vacation days.

Frustrating as their circumstances were, it was difficult to see the sinking sun reflected off the waves crashing into the sand and not be at least a little bit heartened. The car wound into town on narrow streets, passing colorful low-slung shops and a number of people clearly on holiday.

When they eventually pulled to a stop in the municipal lot on the edge of town – which itself was cordoned off from the predominantly pedestrian village – Kovalic stepped out to find the sharp tang of saltwater in his nose and a warm ocean breeze ruffling his hair. It felt weirdly idyllic and surreal for a trio of fugitives on the run.

“So,” he said, looking over the top of the car at the general, who had gotten out the other side. “Who’s this old friend we’re meeting?”

From somewhere the general produced a white broad-brimmed hat and seated it atop his bald head. It was joined by a pair of sunglasses and, though that might not have seemed like an effective disguise, it did give him the air of a grandfather on vacation, especially when he swung his walking stick in a jaunty fashion.

Rance had shucked her uniform’s tunic; her sleeveless undershirt, decidedly out of place in a military setting, fit in perfectly in the beachside village. Kovalic tugged at his own coat, which was definitely on the warm side for the weather, and settled for taking it off and slinging it over one shoulder. That was how a relaxed person looked, right?

“Calling him a friend might be overselling it,” said the general as the three of them fell into step, walking towards the bustling center of town. “We haven’t seen each other in seven years, and we did not part on the best of terms.”

“Seven years?” Kovalic echoed. “That’s… a specific number. Right about the time you defected.” Slowing to a stop, he gave the general a hard stare. “He’s Illyrican, isn’t he? Another of your ’undisclosed’ contacts.”

The general, who had continued on for a few steps after Kovalic halted, waved his stick. “Come now, Simon, you’re blocking the street.”

With a sigh, Kovalic pressed two fingers to his forehead. “I can’t believe this. Again. How many other things are you not telling me?”

Strolling back, the general planted both his hands atop the stick’s pommel and let out a long breath. “You’re right, of course. For so long, secrets were the currency of my life, and I became all too accustomed to hoarding them. It’s a hard habit to break, but I will endeavor to do better.”

It hit all the right notes. The older man even looked regretful. But a knot still burned in Kovalic’s chest, reminding him that it was the general playing his cards close to his vest that had landed them in this rapidly boiling water. “Who is he?”

The general waved a conciliatory hand towards Kovalic and started walking again. Rance had taken up a position on point, a few yards ahead, looking for all the world as though she just happened to be strolling through town, with no connection to the two men behind her.

Reluctantly, Kovalic fell into step with the general as they crossed over a stone bridge and into Tokai proper.

“Yevgeniy Esterhaus.” The name fell from the general’s lips like lead weights. “You know him?”

“No. Should I?”

“He was a high-ranking Imperial Intelligence officer. Seven years ago he left the Imperium and came here under an assumed identity.”

Kovalic’s eyebrows rose. “Another defector?”

Here the general’s mouth pulled back in a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not as such. Yevgeniy’s departure was not as… voluntary as mine.”

“Exiled?”

“Let us say he managed to get out one step before the firing squad.”

“And he fled here, to Nova. Did CID know about him?” Surely he would have been debriefed by the Commonwealth’s intelligence agencies, pumped for every last bit of intel. But even as Kovalic asked, he already knew the answer: had Esterhaus been a known defector, Kovalic would have heard of him.

“No,” said the general. “The circumstances of his departure were so deeply upsetting that he decided to leave all vestiges of that life behind him. Hence, opening a tea shop in these lovely surroundings.”

“Wait,” said Kovalic, putting up his hands. “You want us to put our lives in the hands of a former Illyrican spy? What makes you think he won’t just turn around and sell us out to the Imperium to get back in their good graces?”

They walked in silence for a moment, passing a low stone wall that looked out over the beach. Novan gulls wheeled and cried overhead, their screeches echoing through the narrow streets. “Yevgeniy was one of my top lieutenants at IIS,” said the general at last. “Deeply loyal to the Imperium. Losing him was a devastating blow to IIS and to me personally.”

“Why’d he leave?”

A wince shot through the general, and he paused and raised a shaky hand. “Must we dredge all this up? It’s ancient history.”

“You just told me you were trying to do better. What aren’t you telling me?”

The general sighed and looked out over the beach, his eyes invisible behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses. “I was the one who burned him. Forced him to flee and leave his life behind.” He glanced up at the falling sun, then nodded. “It’s getting late. I’d like to get to the tea shop before it closes, if you don’t mind.”

Kovalic had a litany of other questions and, as tempted as he was to demand answers, a public street didn’t seem like the place to do it. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of other recourse at this point: they were here, for better or worse.

But it didn’t mean he was going in blind. He still had the KO gun he’d taken off the marine that morning tucked within his folded jacket, concealed but within easy reach.

They trailed Rance, who was herself following a route through the winding streets of Tokai that she had apparently memorized. At one point they were up on a flyover, pedestrians milling below, then later they walked under a bridge on a street where restaurants were dragging tables out onto patios and sidewalks in anticipation of the upcoming dinner crowd.

After a ten-minute walk – longer than Kovalic had figured, given the town’s small size, but all the twists and turns made it larger than it looked from the outside – they turned down a side street towards a yellow building, outside of which hung a filigreed sign with elegant cursive lettering.

“‘Tea for Two’,” Kovalic read. “Cute.”

The sign on the door still said “Open,” so the general pushed his way in, leaving Kovalic and Rance in his wake. Kovalic caught the yeoman’s arm before she could follow her boss, and she shot him a questioning look.

“How much of that did you know?”

She leveled him with a calculating look that sent a pang through him, it so reminded him of Nat. “I knew what I needed to know, major.”

“And you still trust him? After everything you just learned?”

“It doesn’t change what he’s done – or what we’ve accomplished together. He’s more than earned my trust. Hasn’t he earned yours?” Gently, she disengaged his hand; a chime sounded gently from within as the door closed behind her.

Kovalic stood on the sidewalk, feeling the paths branching out before him. What was the alternative? Sacrifice the general to save his own skin? Despite all his misgivings, the best chance of uncovering Isabella’s mole person was here, working with the general – not in a prison cell. So, really, there was no decision at all.

He stepped up and pushed open the tea shop door, another jingle sounding above his head.

A cool blast of air hit him, respite from the warmth of the day. The shop’s interior was simple but elegant: half a dozen bamboo-topped tables with wrought iron feet, each surrounded by high-backed chairs with comfortable cushions. Most of the tables were occupied by small groups of customers, and a low murmur of polite conversation percolated through the space. There was a small counter at the back, fronted by display cases of confections, some of which were being carefully laden onto tiered trays ferried to the tables by smiling servers.

Rance was already in conversation with the host, a small man with dark brown skin and a pencil mustache, who was smiling and gesturing her and the general to one of the few free tables, next to the front window. Kovalic followed them and took the seat against the wall, draping his jacket over the back of the chair and using the opportunity to surreptitiously slide the knockout gun into his pocket.

The maître d’ handed them hardbound menus, elegantly embossed with the shop’s name in gold. Anachronistic, but it fit the decor and atmosphere. And, after all, wasn’t that what you were paying for in a place like this? The experience?

Looking up from his perusal of the menu, the general peered around the shop. “Is the proprietor about, by any chance? He’s an old friend.”

The maître d’ couldn’t have been more surprised if someone had told him that their tea was cold. “You know Monsieur Giroux? I must admit, that is a first. But yes, he’s in the back. I’ll tell him you’re here – what was the name?”

“We haven’t seen each other for some years,” said the general, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “The name’s McCrae.”

Kovalic froze, his fingers tightening on the menu. The general never did anything by accident, or left it to chance. If he was dredging that name from their shared past – the night when they’d first met, no less – it was to send a message.

With a nod, the host disappeared towards the back of the room. Without explicitly meeting Kovalic’s gaze, the general acknowledged him with a dip of his chin. “I’ll explain later,” he murmured.

That didn’t reassure Kovalic. His hand dipped towards the weapon in his pocket, every instinct flaring into high alert. All of this was increasingly feeling like a bad idea, and he was on the verge of suggesting they should go when a slightly accented voice boomed out from the rear of the shop. “Hamish McCrae, my god.”

Its owner proved to be a rotund man in a well-cut seersucker suit, with a brilliant red flower in his lapel. Everything about the man was expansive, from his broad, friendly face to his meaty hands. He crossed the shop, arms wide open as though greeting a long-lost friend. The rest of the patrons – and the staff for that matter – looked surprised at the display.

He crossed to the table, still smiling, and took the general’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. The general, for his part, covered a rare bout of discomfiture by summoning a veneer of politesse no doubt ingrained from his upbringing. “Hello, Jean, it has been too long.”

The big man leaned closer, and Kovalic caught his grip tightening around the general’s. His smile held, but the eyes – dark, wide set – were steel. His voice lowered, pitched for the three of them alone as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Not long enough for me, Hasan al-Adaj. You have one minute to get the fuck out of here before I kill you with my bare hands.”