Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault Read online

   She turned and pouted again. Logan held up his hand. “For god's sake, stop pouting. It's getting old. You'll get cut into the deal, if any of us see the other end of it. I've got a job for you, anyway.”

   “That blonde hussy's your mistress. Or do you want both of us!” she said, angrily. Anna looked fairly unhappy at this turn of events.

   “Don't tempt me. I wouldn't live two nights. No, I need you to make a call for me, then in a few hours, you need to deliver a package to me.”

   “A package? What, where?” She was just confused now – and she wasn't the only one.

   “It's quite simple. I want you to phone up the Parched Prospector, tell them I want to hire the bar for the rest of the day. Have the bartender set out a table, five chairs and a gavel.

   “A gavel? Why can't you do it?”

   “My pad lines are certainly being monitored now. Then I want you to make a post on the local computer net, nice and prominent on the local used items section.”

   “What?”

   “Quite simple. One portrait, the Star Lady, for sale to highest bidder. Auction to be conducted at the Parched Prospector in one hour from now.”

   Everyone turned and looked at him.

   “I want to make sure that everyone is there. Both everyone I know about, and any other rogues that might be running around. I'm damn sure they'll have network alerts set up should anyone even whisper about the portrait – well I want to shout good and loud, drive these bastards right out of the woodwork.”

   “Logan – it's mine. What I did to get it...”, Anna said, a darker tone to her voice.

   “You will have the same opportunity as anyone else to bid in the auction. I'm afraid that this time I'm going to have to insist on cash on delivery.”

   “Logan...”, Boris started.

   “I'm settling this once and for all. While Melissa is calling, you could pour another round of drinks. I think we're going to need them before this day is over.”

  Chapter 10

   Boris walked into the bar, and set his cap down on the table. The bartender bustled off, handing him the keycard; obviously he had no wish to become involved any further in the proceedings. He looked at his watch, and there was a knock on the door. Artur walked in, looked around cautiously, and turned to face Boris.

   “Where is Mr. Winter? I need to have words with him.” An air of menace filed his words.

   “He'll be here in a few moments. Why don't you take a seat?”

   “I gave him money in good faith. This farce...”

   Artur was interrupted by the door going once again; Boris recognized Maxim Orlov by his description; a pair of lightly-disguised goons stood behind him. One took Maxim's hat, another his coat; Boris just about managed to suppress a smile at the stereotypical scene.

   “You are Captain Ducharov?” he asked, looking at Artur with disdain.

   “Correct; Mr. Winter will be here in a moment, with the remaining interested party, I believe. Would you gentlemen care for a drink while we wait?”

   Artur snorted; Maxim gave a thin smile. “That is most kind of you; I'll have a scotch. On the rocks, naturally.”

   Boris poured himself a vodka at the same time, and took a quick, nervous sip. He took another quick look at his watch; where was Logan? Just as he was beginning to get concerned that he had been left with a mess to clear up, the door went again, and Logan walked in.

   Anna was with him, and she had gone for the full-scale knockout. Artur paid her no mind, but the two goons were clearly leering at her. She sat down in front of the table, crossing her legs. Logan stayed by the door, sizing up the room.

   “I see everyone has arrived. Boris, if you would lock the door?”

   Boris hastened to comply, taking up a position with his back to the wall. Logan walked over behind the table, placing his hands upon it. He picked up the gavel, ran his hands over it. All eyes in the room were on him. He looked at the two goons; one of them had a rather menacing looking scar running down the left side.

   “Scarface, if you would be so good as to pour me a drink, we can begin our business here.”

   The man growled; Maxim smiled, then turned and gave the guard a menacing look. The drink was sloppy, liquid running down the side as it was slammed down on the table.

   Artur spoke first. “Mr. Winter, I understood that we had an arrangement. You were to deliver the package to me, in exchange for ten thousand kopeks.” Maxim laughed at that. “I gave you a substantial retainer to secure it for me.”

   Maxim turned and looked at him. “Ten thousand kopeks. Chickenfeed, as you very well know, sir. I agreed to the payment of fifteen thousand kopeks. You, sir, have been outbid.”

   Artur's eyes widened. “I had no knowledge of other interested parties!”

   Maxim countered, “So you admit – you were attempting to purchase this item on the cheap?”

   Logan banged the gavel on the desk. “You are both correct, gentlemen. I agreed to deliver the parcel to each of you – and to Anna, as well. All three of you paid me substantial retainers for this work.”

   He pulled out his wallet, counted out twenty hundred-kopek notes, straight from the bank, and sorted them into two piles.

   “Boris, if you would be so good as to give these gentlemen their money? Anna, I fear that I am unable to return the payment you made me.” She gave him an acid stare; Maxim gave a wide smirk. “Nevertheless, I did undertake to protect you, and you are still here – so I venture that I have completed the job I was originally hired for.”

   Maxim simply folded the notes and placed them in his wallet; Artur carefully counted them before putting them away. Logan took a deep sip of his drink, and returned it to the table.

   “Once it became apparent that there were numerous bidders for this item, I saw that whatever happened, I would antagonize two dangerous people. Three, if I had opted to simply take the painting for myself, which I believe was my late partner's intention. Mr. Orlov, if I had delivered the painting to Artur, will you deny that I would have been joining my partner fairly rapidly?”

   “I would have had to take...steps...to find out where the painting had gone. I am willing to admit that you would have been unlikely to survive them.” Maxim finished his drink, and held his glass out to Scarface.

   “Mr. Kohut, please honestly admit that you would not have been driven to similar steps? And as for you, my sweet Anna – I must suspect that you would also have been on my tail. In short, I was left with a problem. I would never have been rid of this painting, one way or another.”

   Maxim looked up. “Had you informed me of this problem, Mr. Winter, I would have been only to happy to include its resolution as additional payment for your services. I would still be willing to make this offer.” His guards placed their hands on his weapons; Logan pushed his jacket back to reveal the twin butts of his pistols, and Boris placed his hand on his gun.

   “I think that enough people have died over this business already. Eighteen at last count. I propose the following: I have the portrait in my possession. I will sell it, to the highest bidder, in a straight auction, to be conducted immediately. The advertisement I placed was genuine.”

   Maxim nodded, and smiled; Artur was growing more and more enraged. Anna was looking at Logan, pleading with him with her eyes; he struggled to ignore her.

   “Well played, sir,” Maxim said, clapping his hands together. “Whatever happens, you are no longer a part of the affair after tonight. You dispose of the portrait, walk away with a substantial sum of money, and the rival bidders will know exactly whom to pursue. You have my compliments; if you are ever in need of employment, feel free to contact me.”

   Logan looked at the others. “Mr. Kohut, do you agree?”

   Artur looked from side to side at his rivals. “If I must take part in this farce, then yes, I agree.”

   “Anna?”

   “Logan...I...�
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   Logan looked at her with the coldest expression he could manage. “Anna, do you agree?”

   “Yes,” she said, in a quiet voice. Logan knew damn well that there would only be two real bidders in the auction; her only chance of getting it had been through him.

   “Very well, then we can begin. The auction for the 'Star Lady', a portrait dating back to the final days of the Terran Empire. The general agreement appears to be that the value of this item is almost beyond calculation; let us see whether the bidding is as astounding. Payment must be made before the painting is given to the new owner, immediately following the conclusion of this auction. Before we begin, Boris, if you would refresh our drinks, please?”

   Boris went around the group, passing round drinks. Logan used the pause to collect himself. His forehead was covered in sweat, but he managed to resist wiping it with the back of his hand. He played with the gavel in his hand, turning it back and forth.

   “If everyone is ready, we will begin. I open the bidding at five thousand kopeks. Certainly a bargain.”

   Artur's hand shot up eagerly. “Five thousand!”

   Maxim looked at him, and shook his head. “Six thousand, Mr. Winter.”

   Anna had been making a series of mental calculations. “Seven thousand, Logan.”

   “Eight thousand!” Artur shrieked. Logan looked at Anna, who shook her head disconsolately. The first bidder had dropped out. She could never have paid the full ten thousand; he'd known that all along.

   Maxim smiled again, and took a sip of his drink. “Ten thousand, sir.”

   Artur looked first at Maxim, then at Logan. “Eleven thousand kopeks.”

   “Twelve thousand.” Maxim countered. Logan could see Artur working out exactly how much he could afford in his head.

   “Mr. Winter – I bid fifteen thousand kopeks.”

   “Excellent, Mr. Kohut. Mr. Orlov, can you make a higher bid?”

   Maxim gave a brief snort of a laugh. “Can I? I most certainly can. Eighteen thousand.”

   Barely controlled rage erupted on Artur's face. Anna was looking around at the room, trying to work out which one was going to win; Logan could tell that she was attempting to figure out whether she would be able to charm the winner out of the painting. Her body language suggested that she favored Artur.

   “Twenty thousand! Twenty thousand kopeks!” Artur yelled. Maxim laughed, long and loud.

   “Mr. Winter, I must say that this has been one of the more enjoyable moments of my pursuit of this item. After all, victory is always sweetest. Twenty-five thousand.”

   The room fell silent. Anna's face fell; Artur's turned red. Logan nodded at Maxim, then turned to look at Artur.

   “Mr. Kohut? The bid is with Mr. Orlov. Do you wish to make a higher bid?”

   “I can't, damn you! I can't!” he screamed, almost hysterically.

   “Then I conclude the auction. The Star Lady, after payment, will become the property of Mr. Orlov, for the sum of twenty-five thousand kopeks.” Logan banged the gavel down on the table, twice. With the second noise, he heard another noise – a gunshot. Scarface dropped to the ground, his arm bleeding.

   Artur had pulled a gun; a small concealable piece, probably hidden in his sleeve. Boris had him covered, as did the other goon; Artur had Maxim in his sights.

   “I've been cheated. You are all conspiring against me. I could never have won the auction, you all knew that!”

   “Mr. Kohut, this doesn't need to end here. Put the gun down, and I will guarantee your safety. Let it go!” Logan pleaded.

   “No! I have spent too long, too much! It is going to be mine!”

   He was waving his gun slightly, just a fraction of an inch; and two more reports echoed around the room. Smoke curled out of Maxim's sleeve; Artur was evidently not the only one with a concealed weapon. Artur dropped to the floor, slumping against the wall, blood trickling down his face. He coughed twice, and then was still. Boris ran over to check his pulse, and shook his head.

   “It would appear that your wish for the auction to prevent further bloodshed was never going to be realized, Mr. Winter. Laudable as it may have been.” Maxim slid the gun out of his sleeve, and handed it to his unwounded guard. “Given the circumstances, and the lack of any other bidder, I feel that I am able to reduce my bid back down to fifteen thousand kopeks.”

   Logan looked at him, their eyes met for a brief minute – cold steel against cold steel. Logan nodded, and looked over at Boris.

   “Very well, I agree. If I could see the money?”

   Maxim looked at Scarface, who was hugging his bad arm with his good one. Wincing, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out an envelope, passing it to Maxim. He placed it on the table, in front of the gavel. Logan looked in – fifteen thousand-kopek notes. He smiled.

   “I see you came well-prepared.”

   “As far as I am concerned, Mr. Winter, I have satisfied my end of the bargain, and given you an additional bonus in removing Mr. Kohut as a future source of inconvenience.”

   “I suppose that I am forced to agree,” Logan wryly said, looking at the guard. “Boris, if you would be so good as to tell Melissa to come in?”

   Boris nodded, turned, and unlocked the door. Melissa was standing outside, looking nervous, holding the painting. She passed it to Boris, who passed it to Logan; she then whispered something in Boris' ear.

   “Take her out of here, then. I'll see you later, you can collect your cut then.” Logan said; Maxim nodded.

   The pair left the room; Logan locked the door behind them. He placed the package on the table, and pulled off the wrapping, a piece at a time. Maxim stood to his feet, took two short steps forward. The last of the wrapping dropped to the floor, and Logan picked up the envelope.

   Maxim looked up at Logan and nodded, then looked back at the painting. His exhilaration turned to a frown, then to an angry scowl, and he pounded his fists on the table. Logan froze with the envelope half-in his pocket; the guard drew his gun and pointed it square at his face.

   “It's a god-damned fake! What bullshit are you trying to pull?” Maxim screamed. He pushed over the table, grabbed Logan by his jacket, and slammed him against the wall. Anna stood up and backed away, over by the bar.

   “I'm not pulling anything! That's the painting I was delivered from the mail ship. It's been locked in my safe the entire time.”

   “Bullshit, you bastard! Bullshit! You've slipped a fake on me! Did you think I was that stupid?”

   Logan pushed himself to his feet, and stared Maxim square in the face.

   “Of course I didn't! If I was going to try and give you a fake painting, then I damn well would have made sure it was convincing enough not to be spotted by a casual glance. And where would I have got one made on this hell-hole? It's not as if there are art forgers on every street corner around here.”

   Maxim turned to look at unwounded guard. “Herman? Bring me the medical kit.”

   Logan's face turned white. “What are you going to do?”

   Maxim looked him square in the face, his fury clear in every line. “You say that you are telling the truth. I must admit that there is some merit in what you say, but I am going to drug you to find out. If you resist then I will kill you. If I dislike your answers I will kill you. Sit down.”

   “I haven't got anything to hide.” Logan sat down, took off his jacket and rolled up a dirty brown sleeve. “Do your worst.”

   Herman pulled out a hypodermic, made sure that it was set correctly, and injected him. Logan's eyes dilated, he started to get dizzy, grabbing onto the chair with one hand to stop himself falling over. Everything seemed to be spinning. The only focus point was Maxim, his cold eyes boring into him.

   “Mr. Winter, can you hear me?”

   “Yes,” Logan heard himself saying.

   “Where are you?”

   “The Parched Prospector. Wrangel C
olony.”

   “Lie to me. How old are you?”

   “One h...thirty-one. Thirty-one.” He gasped for breath.

   “Lie to me or I will shoot you. What color is your hair?”

   Herman pulled his gun out, pointed it square at his face, right between the eyes.

   Logan was sweating, eyes fixed on the gun. Anna was looking at him, alarm flashing across her face.

   “Pu...pur...brown! Brown!!!” he screamed.

   Maxim nodded at Herman, who returned his gun to his holster.

   “Very well. Mr. Winter, when did you receive the painting?”

   “When the mail ship landed.” His voice was cold, alien.

   “When did you first see the painting?”

   “When you showed it to me.”

   “The woman, Helena. When did you last hear from her?”

   The questions came in a monotone; Logan was responding in kind.

   “Three years ago. She left me a note.”

   “Mr. Winter, this is critical. Did you substitute the painting for a copy?”

   “No.”

   “Are you sure?” The stare was growing colder, the voice more menacing.

   “Yes,” Logan spoke with finality.

   Maxim looked at Herman, nodded again. Another shot into Logan's arm, and then Maxim brought over a cold glass, a quarter-full of vodka.

   “Drink that, Mr. Winter. You will find that it helps.”

   The drink went down in two gulps; the room slowly stopped spinning, and Logan began to breathe deeply.

   “I suppose I passed the test.”

   “Regrettably, Mr. Winter. Regrettably.”

   He turned back to look at the picture, still sitting on the table, and began to sweep a device over it, taking readings from different corners.

   “It would appear that we have both been duped. This painting is old, but is certainly not the original.”

   “How old is it?” Logan rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and made his way over to the picture.