The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“We’re going to check out security for our new employers,” Vierziger said. He opened the coat closet beside the front door and took out the attaché case he’d put there. The case was made of—at least covered with—reptile hide of some sort, black and shiny and as exquisite as every other part of Vierziger’s ensemble.

The only weapon he carried was the pistol over his right hip.

“Driving or walking?” the sensor tech asked. He stopped in the lobby and fastened the belt properly.

“You’re driving us,” Vierziger answered. “I’ll give you directions.”

He nodded goodbye to the others as he closed the door behind him.

“Doesn’t handle himself much like a sergeant, does he?” Sten Moden said to nobody in particular after the door closed.

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Margulies said dryly. “Sten, did you know Joachim Steuben? Colonel Hammer’s hit man?”

Moden shrugged. “Saw him once, a long way away. I’d heard he was dead.”

“He is dead,” Margulies said. “I saw the incident report. Took a 2-cm bolt slap between the shoulder-blades. No trouble with the identification—head and limbs weren’t touched. But there’s no curst doubt he was dead—”

The two officers looked at the armored door without speaking further.

“Bingo!” said Barbour. He’d gone on with his search while everyone else was focused on Johann Vierziger. “I’ve got what the major’s looking for!”

“Well, call it in to him,” Sten Moden said. “Sounded like he meant it when he said ASAP.”

Barbour touched the channel one button on the console.

Mary Margulies leaned over the intelligence officer’s shoulder to see the highlighted name. “Cargo Supervisor Terence Ortega,” she read aloud. She frowned. “The name’s familiar for some reason.”

“Now,” said Johann Vierziger as the door to the underground garage quivered. Daun ran the jitney forward five meters, across the head of the ramp.

Suterbilt’s armored four-wheeled van pulled halfway through the doorway. The driver slammed on his brakes in a panic when he realized the lighter vehicle was halted across his passage.

Vierziger stepped off the back of the jitney with the attaché case in his left hand and a bright smile on his face. The van’s headlights fell across him. “Master Suterbilt!” he called in a cheerful voice. “Just the man we’re looking for! We’ve identified a security problem.”

The van’s driver opened the door and stepped out onto his running board. He pointed a bell-mouthed mob gun through the crack at the Frisian. Vierziger walked over and extended his right hand to the driver. The local man aimed the mob gun skyward and shook hands, looking confused.

“Who are you?” Suterbilt called from inside the vehicle. After a moment, he got out and walked a step up the ramp.

“Johann Vierziger of the Frisian Defense Forces,” Vierziger answered enthusiastically. “We’ve run a security check on L’Escorial—and yourself, of course, since you’re really the most important—”

“I’m not a member of any local organization!” Suterbilt interrupted hastily. “I work for Trans-Star Trading.”

“Of course you do,” Vierziger agreed with a patently oily smile. “Of course. But—you can see how significant you are to us, to the FDF, surely?”

He waved his hand toward the street traffic. “That other lot, they’re boobs with guns. They don’t matter to professionals like ourselves, whatever color they happen to be wearing when we go to work. But you, Master Suterbilt …Anything that could affect our payment is a matter of serious concern.”

The TST offices were on the second floor of the building Suterbilt was leaving on his way home. He glanced up at the block of lighted windows.

“We have a security system as well as guards,” he said in dawning nervousness. “Do you think …?”

“It’s not here that we foresee a problem,” Vierziger explained. “After all, an attack on TST doesn’t affect you personally. We’re more concerned that the work of art you have in an outlying dwelling would be targeted. You have a Suzette, do you not? A psychic ambiance that’s probably worth close to the value of the warehouse which Astra has already destroyed.”

Except for the pistol on his hip, Vierziger looked like an unusually well-dressed businessman from a highly developed world. The reptile-skin case caught the light of passing vehicles as he gestured with it. The shimmer drew attention away from his right hand—gun hand—which moved scarcely at all.

“What could they possibly gain by damaging the ambiance?” the factor asked in amazement. “Anyway, I’ve thought of that. There’s six guards in the house at all times. As thick as the walls are, they could hold out for days if there was trouble.”

Suterbilt’s driver settled back into his seat. He shifted his gaze between his principal, standing beside the van, and Niko Daun, seated in the saddle of the jitney with a vaguely positive expression.

“Precisely!” Vierziger said, leaving Suterbilt even more puzzled. “And what would you give to prevent the destruction of that valuable work of art, Master Suterbilt? Would you cancel the FDF’s contract?”