I hesitated for only a second. “Your birth name?” I said.
She nodded. “Now would seem to be the time,” she said, caught between pride and embarrassment. “Did you see this?” She thrust a newspaper into my hands and indicated a block of text.
The Right Honorable Thomas DeKlepp, Secretary of National Security, responding to recent Mahweni protests said, “It is unfortunate that elements of the black community do not show an appropriate level of patriotism. It makes one wonder where their true loyalties lie.” When pressed as to whether he thought Mahweni elements may have been involved in the theft of the Beacon and may be in league with the Grappoli, the secretary said that he could not comment at present but that investigations were ongoing and that “nothing would surprise” him, particularly given the recent “failures of leadership within the black community.”
I winced.
“I don’t know what you are doing exactly,” said Sureyna, “but whatever it is, do it well and do it fast. You don’t have very long. None of us do.” As she spoke, she fished something from her pocket. “I hope this helps.”
She handed me a scrap of paper penciled in Tanish’s untidy scrawl.
Morlak handing off box tonite. Pier 7, Ware house 3. Midnite. Westsiders will be there too.
I stared at the note.
Finally, I thought.
This was where we took a step back from the brink.
“What’s in the box?” asked Sureyna.
“Not sure,” I said.
“But you suspect.”
“I suspect,” I agreed, my eyes wandering up and over the rooftops to where, not so many days ago, the Beacon had once blazed for all to see. “Can you meet me before you start work tomorrow?”
“Where?”
“Here,” I said. “First light. I will have something for the apprentice reporter. Something special.”
*
“THAT PART OF THE docks serves ships using the Cape shipping lanes,” said Willinghouse, considering Tanish’s note.
He was sitting beside me in the police carriage. Von Strahden was next to Andrews.
For a moment, as the full implication of this settled upon us, no one spoke.
“The Grappoli,” said Andrews.
“That seems likely, yes,” said Willinghouse.
“Then we’re going to war,” said Andrews, “unless we recover the Beacon and find a way for the Grappoli to save face.”
“How?” asked Von Strahden. “If anyone finds out, and I mean anyone—”
“If we recover it, it’s a victory,” said Willinghouse. “We can make the rest go away. We may even emerge with some bargaining power against the Grappoli.”
Von Strahden conceded the point. “We’ll have to time our entrance very carefully,” he said. “We need to catch them in the act of the handoff.”
“My men are ready,” said Andrews, taking a revolver from his pocket and slotting bullets into its cylinder. I had loaded mine too, helping myself to ammunition from a supply bin back at the station when no one was looking, but Andrews didn’t know I was armed.
“The Westsiders,” said Willinghouse, rereading Tanish’s note. “Who are they?”
“A minor gang who work the south-bank docks,” said Andrews. “Led by a man called Deveril.”
“Wears a top hat,” I added. “They’ve been dealing with the Seventh Street gang for weeks, swapping merchandise, even personnel.”
Berrit another commodity to be traded, this one disposable.
There was a thoughtful silence. I could smell the tang of the sea through the city’s constant eddies of sulfurous industrial fog. In the distance, I could hear chanting. One of the protests downtown was going late. I wondered if troops had been sent in yet.
“Well,” said Von Strahden to break the tension, “this is all jolly exciting!”
“Makes a change from dispatching survey crews and reading reports, I imagine,” I agreed, remembering the day he had driven me into town with Dahria.
“Survey crews?” said Willinghouse blankly.
“She just means government work,” said Von Strahden heartily. “Oh yes, this is much more thrilling.”
Willinghouse still looked fogged, but Andrews cut them off with a sober look.
“When we get to Dock Street,” he said, “I want you three well clear. This is a police operation. I want no civilian casualties, and I sure as hell don’t want amateurs messing things up. The department is being watched very closely on this one. I have to report to the prime minister’s personal secretary before returning home tonight.”
“In a few hours, you will be able to hand him the Beacon personally,” I said.
Von Strahden gave me an encouraging smile, but Andrews merely frowned.