CHAPTER 11
Sharif Maktoum prided himself on his ability to balance his professional duties with his role as a husband and father, attempting to emulate the lives of his own parents and grandparents before him in a longstanding family tradition. As a key part of this determination, Sharif worked from his Earth-based office as much as possible, attending every one of his wife’s celebrated showings, where her paintings invariably drew critical and popular praise. He also made appearances at his daughter’s polo matches and his son’s triathlon events.
As his parents had demonstrated, these activities provided an almost mystical grounding effect that had kept generations of Maktoums productive and reasonably human despite the siren calls of immense wealth.
It was due to a heavy upcoming schedule of family activities that Sharif originally ignored the initial warning signs arising from Bethune.
First had been the call from Humphreys over in the Digital Properties department. “I just wanted to be sure I acted correctly, sir,” Humphreys said in an apologetic tone. “Your brother indicated you had approved a substantial transfer, but I couldn’t find a signature stamp from your office, so I—”
“Which property, Humphreys?” Sharif had interrupted with a sinking heart.
“Um, it’s cataloged as Echo three four dash seven . . . a very large fabrication file series with—”
“Got it,” Sharif interrupted again. “When did this transfer take place?”
“On the sixth, sir,” Humphreys said. “A couple of weeks ago now, I guess.”
Sharif had reassured Humphreys, ending the call, then decided that it was best to leave Sami to his devices for the moment, although he could only guess what harebrained scheme his brother pursued now. Sami undoubtedly believed he had found some amazing method to capitalize upon his earlier disastrous brainstorm, and Sharif would allow him a suitable quantity of metaphorical rope to eventually hang himself.
The second indicator of big ideas arising from the vicinity of Bethune hit Sharif’s desk only a week later. A note from one of his most attentive bean counters flagged an unusually rapid increase in capital expenditures on the Ajanib project, detailing invoices from a troubling array of suppliers. The bizarre diversity of products and services puzzled Sharif as greatly as it irritated him, providing clues that seemed to run counter to each other. Was Sami establishing a top-shelf brothel on Ajanib, or some sort of high-tech prototyping facility? Whatever it was, Sharif knew he would need to address it personally.
With a long-suffering sigh, Sharif sent a message to his assistant, asking him to fit a trip to Bethune on the itinerary within the next eight weeks . . . but this rash of Sami-inspired revelations was not complete.
A week later, Sharif noticed an unusual degree of interest in his appearance at a prestigious gallery featuring some of his wife’s latest work. She was the focal point of the evening, and yet several of the wealthy scions attending the event caught Sharif’s eye with appreciative nods, smiles, and raised glasses, causing Sharif no small degree of puzzlement.
It was only as the evening wound down that he learned the unsettling truth when one of the Picot twins approached through the watchful screen of Sharif’s security agents. “A master stroke, Sharif,” Evelyn Picot said, smiling, “though a bit out of character for you, I must say.” Sharif glimpsed the flashy animation rippling across Evelyn’s palm slate, words scrolling over the image of antique Old Earth vehicles racing down the smooth, aquamarine tunnels of Ajanib.
Sharif didn’t read every word of the high-end advertisement, but he saw the phrase “racing, high-stakes gambling, unregulated competition . . .” before the Maktoum logo, riding high, caught his attention.
Evelyn Picot stared at Sharif’s face as the images sank in, saying, “You seem surprised, Sharif.”
Sharif looked up to her face, his own expression as close to neutral as he could manage. “I am surprised. Sami is far ahead of schedule, it appears, and I didn’t think the science teams had finished with Ajanib as yet.”
Evelyn accepted this, shaking her head with a roguish gleam in her eye. “Another surprising benefit of this Bethune system’s defection, ditching the Confederated Worlds, right?” she said. “A more adult tolerance for gambling and high-risk competition must be perfect for this sort of thing.” She paused. “But those genuine copies of Old Earth vehicles . . . Where did you ever obtain certified fabrication files for antiques like that? Those must be worth a fortune.”
Through a blank smile, Sharif said, “Sami certainly thinks they are worth more than I would have thought possible.”
As soon as Sharif extricated himself from Evelyn Picot, he sent a terse message to his assistant instructing him to cancel anything that conflicted with a forthcoming trip. Sharif would be visiting Bethune as soon as he could feasibly get there. Until he faced Sami directly, alone, Sharif would not be pleasant company for anyone.
District Attorney Bartson strode into the holding cell that served as a meeting room, featuring a table bolted to the floor and chairs equally secured, where Warren Springer Stowe waited, seated on one hard chair, his arms crossed. Although the expression on Stowe’s face seemed to retain a degree of the cockiness that irked Bartson to no end, the dehumanizing jail pajamas adorning Stowe’s lanky body, and the rather pale, drawn cast to Stowe’s features helped mitigate that feeling somewhat. Though Bartson would never willingly admit it to anyone, one key pleasure he found in an otherwise thankless job was the sensation he felt in moments such as this. For weeks Stowe had suffered under the deprivations common to “civilized” jails across human society, eating tasteless slop three meals per day, trying to sleep on a hard metal bunk, and all while clothed in a garment so obviously designed to humiliate. Bartson, however, breezed into these meetings, dressed immaculately, his hair finely coifed, the glow on his skin reflecting a recent luncheon at an outdoor corner café, frequently with a tall mug of dark roast steaming in his hand.
The contrast never failed to give Bartson a jolt of some lovely, primal energy, the delicious taste of true dominating power. When the subject of his domination was such an arrogant and wealthy prick like Warren Springer Stowe, it became nearly orgasmic.
Stowe sat silently observing Bartson as the folder in Bartson’s hand was opened, spread flat on the table. “Well, Mister Stowe, since you refuse to obtain a licensed local attorney, it appears you will be representing yourself at trial.” Warren said nothing, eyeing Bartson curiously, and Bartson smiled, going on. “In addition to the charges we previously mentioned, you will now also be charged with one assault.”
Warrens brows lowered thoughtfully. “And whom have I supposedly assaulted, sport?”
Bartson sifted through his folder. “Hmm, his name is here somewhere. He was a guard at the museum, struck by flying glass. He’s pretty badly injured, unable to work . . . I’d imagine he’ll pursue personal damages too.”
Warren smiled thinly. “It begins to become clear, I think. What sort of damages would you guess this nameless guard is seeking then, Bartson, old boy?”
Warren’s knowing tone rankled Bartson, and he returned fire by taking a succulent gulp from his steaming mug and considering Warren with all the hauteur he could summon. “Unlike your endless escapades across the Confederated Worlds, here on Bethune no one is above the law, and now you will most certainly pay, Stowe.”
Warren smiled more broadly. “I most certainly will not.”
All of Bartson’s warm satisfaction evaporated in an instant, thoroughly infuriated by Warren’s stubborn hubris. “Then you will continue to enjoy jail life until your trial, where you will be found guilty. You do understand the severity of your crimes, don’t you? When you are convicted you will spend at least eight years in our charming old-fashioned prison.” Bartson took the opportunity for his own smile. “How’s that for paying, Stowe?”
Warren shook his head. “You small-minded guys never really think about it all, do you? You can certainly make me suffer, that’s true, but every day you will be spooning me your god-awful food, lodging me in your medieval prisons, watched over by shift after shift of guards for all these supposed years of my incarceration. I won’t be paying anything; your citizens, your taxpayers will be paying.”
Bartson snorted. “Public safety is in the interest of every law-abiding citizen, Stowe, and one of the few things taxpayers don’t quibble about. Your sympathy for them is quite wasted.”
Warren ran fingers through his hair, musing. “Oh, I don’t know, Bartson. Someone might point out that prisons are great for employing minor bureaucrats . . . and also great for manufacturing lifetime law breakers. When a fellow thinks about it for a bit, there really is quite a lot to, um . . . quibble about.”
Bartson felt his teeth grinding and forced himself to relax, taking a calming breath. “What are you trying to say, Stowe? You going to buy a marketing campaign decrying the evils of our criminal justice system? Even while you rot in a cell?”
Warren stared calmly into Bartson’s eyes. “I just might.”
Bartson stopped just short of slamming the table with his clenched fist, struggling for calm and measured words. They had seized every one of Warren’s belongings they could find on Bethune without locating any substantial form of transferable wealth that could be used for leverage, but they knew he possessed a tidy personal fortune. “I think I mentioned our restitution-and-recompense system to you before. Spend your guilders on restitution and buy yourself a greatly abbreviated prison sentence. That will serve you far better than some pointless crusade.”
Warren snorted. “Serve you far better, I hear.”
Bartson felt a flush mount to his cheeks, and that angered him more than anything. He slapped his folder closed and stood. “I think this meeting is concluded. You and your accomplice . . . uh . . . Miss Boop, will be enjoying the pleasures of our jail for some time to come.” He tapped the access plate and the outer door clanked open. He smiled with all the venom he could muster. “My case load is so heavy, I was forced to obtain waivers from the magistrate. You and your accomplice have your speedy trial rights suspended until further notice. Enjoy your time here.”
Bartson turned on his heel, and if Warren offered a response it was lost in the cycling of the door. Masters stepped out from the observation room as Bartson stood fuming, her expression tentative. “That didn’t go quite as we’d hoped,” she offered.
“No,” Bartson said. “Who the hell has a million-guilder retainer with a law firm, then won’t spend a mere hundred thousand to get his ass out of a dungeon? And where the hell is he keeping his bankroll, anyway?”
Masters shook her head, mournfully considering. They both had mentally spent the fat bonus they would have received if Stowe only paid the restitution and recompense like any other sane wealthy person would.
Bartson and Masters walked silently down the echoing concrete hallway, attempting to figure some means of compelling Warren Springer Stowe to behave rationally. Bartson had all but promised his mistress that cozy little seaside cottage she longed for. Stowe’s stubbornness, and Bartson’s resulting pay cut, would not greatly impress a woman so universally admired, and Bartson would do nearly anything to retain her affections. Nearly anything . . .