- Location
- Southern Virginia
DAY 1, AFTERNOON
"I will purchase the USAS-12 and the night-vision equipment," Pierre concluded. "Is payment by funds transfer from Credit Suisse acceptable?"
Rico nodded his head vigorously. "Most of our better customers prefer it. And so do I. Having to go run a deposit to the bank is pretty exciting at first, but after a while the shootouts get a little boring. Anyway we can finish the transaction in the back. It'll be listed as a donation to the Church, which is tax deductible in most Western countries."
[-$17,000]
Claude laughed. "Oh, well. Put me down for a pair of the goggles as well. If you have some night operation in mind it wouldn't do to come unprepared."
The transactions took a half-hour to process, after which Rico brought out their merchandise. The night vision goggles came in shiny metallic-silver cases, which Rico opened up to show off the goggles and the foam-padding keeping them secure. Pierre simply took the automatic shotgun directly, giving it a brief examination and then loading it. Rico threw in a free leather shoulder strap for the weapon as a temporary measure. It certainly fit with his trench coat, Pierre conceded.
Tim was still waiting with his taxi outside as they left. Claude slipped him another bill to cover the time idling. "Okay, hey, where to next then man?"
Pierre looked over at Claude. "I need a case for the shotgun. Something like… hmm." He thought back to the mariachi at the hotel, and a movie he had seen. "A guitar case would do. The marketplace?"
"We can get lunch there," Claude said, nodding, before looking back to Tim. "Know anywhere good?"
"There's like a small fusion place there, pretty new, but I've heard some good things about it. I can take you there, but afterward I need to split," the driver replied.
"Sounds fine," Pierre replied as he sat back in the taxi. "We need to talk later, somewhere secure. More secure than the hotel room," he said to Claude as the other man buckled in beside him.
"Of course. I'm sure some questions have occurred to you by now, and we need a plan."
Tim took them through the outskirts of Roanapur before plunging back down into the marketplace district of the city proper. It looked a bit livelier than it had earlier in the morning, but the crowds of families that Pierre expected to see, doing their daily shopping, were still mostly absent. There were a few open-air cafes and food stands doing brisk business but mostly with obvious Mafioso or armed natives.
Time let them out at an intersection just ahead of the true markets. "The restaurant's across the street," he said, pointing out a small shop in a narrow two-story building with only a pair of umbrella-shaded tables outside. "The real market's just ahead, foot traffic only, I'd be careful. It's pretty hard to get around if you don't know it, and there used to be lots of pickpockets and scammers around. Guess they haven't come back yet since the Golds shot up the place, but they will."
"I'll keep that in mind," Claude promised as he settled up with the taxi driver. "Anywhere in there to find someone selling instruments?"
"Yeah, just keep going to the left and like, listen out, there's an entire section of the market just for that," Tim said.
"We need to go there first," Pierre decided. "Carrying around an automatic shotgun openly is a bit much even for this city."
"Maybe, maybe not," Claude replied. "It is a hell of a city. Still, we can come back for a late lunch." He tipped the brim of his hat down over his forehead. "And while we're wandering you can ask questions. You've had the time to come up with some about this manuscript, haven't you?"
"Of course," Pierre replied.
The entrance to the covered marketplace loomed with a mixture of invitation and menace. Pierre heard the squawks of birds, smelt a multitude of spices, saw dried fish dangling on lines overhead, and had to throw his hands up to fend off aggressive hawkers of knick-knacks getting up from their stalls. And it was, as Tim had warned, a virtual labyrinth of narrow-winding streets and unexpected corners. As he penetrated deeper into the market, though, the few people there were more sedate. The space between stalls broadened out and he could begin to recognize a certain organization to the quadrants.
He looked around carefully, noting only a dozing shopkeeper near a tray of fake Rolexes, before speaking to Claude again. "Why isn't your contact just buying this manuscript?"
"He wasn't invited to the auction, first and foremost," Claude admitted. "And it's an underworld event. There are dangerous people with deep pockets interested in this document. Some of those people are more dangerous than he is and have deeper pockets. And even if he won, there would be bidders there who would consider doing what I think you are thinking of, which is to take it from the winner. Non?"
"Oui," Pierre admitted. "We don't have much to go on. Following the manuscript when it resurfaces seems easier than trying to find it beforehand."
"It is an option," Claude said, though he frowned at the prospect. "But we are not entirely without hope to find it before the auction. The manuscript did surface in 1944. It was being held at a mosque as part of a collection, then. Of course the Japanese burned the mosque down within the next week, which is why it was thought lost, but that might yet be a lead."
"Someone must have taken it before the Japanese torched the mosque," Pierre concluded. "But how do we know they are even in Roanapur?"
Claude shrugged. "Rumor, innuendo, plus, well, if it were being held anywhere else the auction would be someplace less… completely despicable. Hong Kong or Berne or New York. The only reason to hold it in Roanapur is that the collection is being held nearby. And it would have resurfaced much sooner almost anywhere else it could have been taken."
"You were always the smart one," Pierre said, shrugging. And he heard music coming from a corridor nearby. He shook his head, finished with the conversation for the moment.
It took a little searching to find an artisan selling the kind of case Pierre was looking for, but in the end he did. It featured a deceptively light but durable tropical hardwood shell, with a red velvet interior; and it was painted black, his favorite color. Haggling with his French-Thai Phrasebook wasted some time but brought the cost down to something reasonable. Nor did the merchant bat an eye as Pierre laid his automatic shotgun inside the case to make sure it fit. In the end, with his wallet a little lighter, Pierre took up his now decently concealed weapon and started walking back the way he had come.
[-$200; Acc -1, 2B Improvised Weapon]
Claude laughed at him when he came back out of the music quarter. "That's hahah, quite the style," he choked out. "Who are you supposed to be, Bob Dylan?"
"I always liked Johnny Cash," Pierre replied, even cracking a brief smile. "He reminded me of the folk music of the Corsican hills. The smuggler ballads and rebel songs. There is a similar thread running through them."
"My tastes run more to Verdi," Claude replied. "And my stomach is grumbling," he said with an embarrassed smile. "We should head on to that restaurant. And let's get out any more questions while we walk."
"So, why do you trust your contact? Assuming we even secure this manuscript, if he can't do so himself, it speaks to his capabilities."
Claude laughed. "He found out about the auction without being invited, which should tell you something about his connections. He's an information broker, but also an old man from Vienna. Such people don't make their reputations and livings without upholding their end of a bargain. Also he knows that I know where he lives and considered me dangerous enough to secure the manuscript in the first place. Trust me; I know what I'm doing."
Pierre nodded, but then grinned impishly. "Wasn't that what you said that night in Palermo?"
"That was years and years ago," Claude said with a dismissive wave. "And you still got out of the city thanks to my plan, didn't you? The Greone family even wound up owing us a favor after all was said and done."
"You weren't the one who had to kill an entire cell of Palestinian terrorists," Pierre replied, his grin settling back into default frown. "But I will defer to your expertise here."
He pulled a water bottle from his trench coat and drank as they wandered back out from the covered marketplace. Even in the shade it was hot, and Pierre had been sweating for a while. Having to carry the loaded guitar case and the night vision goggles didn't help. And he was getting hungry himself. It was with some relief that he reached the intersection where Tim had let them off, though it was as almost-deserted as before. At least there would be air conditioning with lunch, he hoped.
But even as that thought cross his mind, he saw something suspicious out of the corner of his eye. A Toyota Hilux passed them by, at high speed, with four men wearing gold shirts and clutching Kalashnikovs in the bed. Pierre nudged his shoulder at Claude, who nodded in response. They watched the pickup shoot over behind the restaurant, into an alleyway free from view of the street, but the armed men were soon walking back around.
"Perhaps we should make some other lunch plans," Claude suggested, as he reached for his concealed pistol. "It seems the special there is not to the liking of someone."
Pierre carefully laid his goggle case on the sidewalk, but relaxed as the men made to enter the restaurant. "Let's see how this goes," he said, laying down the guitar case as well and opening it up. The shotgun was a welcome weight in his hands. "We do need a car."
"Stealing from the local gangs, eh?" Claude shrugged. "We'll wind up stepping on someone's toes. But that might not be the worst idea."
The gangers were intent on their mission enough that Pierre let Claude stay to cover their equipment while he made to cross the street. No sooner had they burst inside the restaurant did they open fire on full automatic, the racket and fixation letting Pierre slip around the side of the building. Only amateurs would be so stupid as not to leave a lookout, but they were…
The gunfire ended abruptly as the glass of the restaurant crashed and the sound of a body thumping the pavement followed. More did. Pierre took the chance to rush into the alley, where, to his lack of surprise, the driver of the Toyota was pissing into a pile of garbage facing away from him.
"SUPARAMAAAAAAN!" A voice bellowed out from the restaurant. "Fuck you, delivering this rotten meat! Send any more goons my way and I'll butcher and tress 'em up and feed 'em to you!"
The driver turned around, eyes wide with shock. Pierre shoved the shotgun into his face a bare moment later. To his disgust the man started to babble on while wetting a spot on the floor. And then Pierre slammed the butt of the shotgun into his head, sending the ganger to the ground in a boneless collapse and sudden thud. Pierre looted his pockets for the keys.
The back door of the restaurant started open. A giant bull of a man peered out, wearing an immaculate chef's hat and a very blood-stained butcher's apron. His thick hands were grasped around a pair of heavy cleavers. "Who th' fuck are you?"
"Just passing by," Pierre responded, feeling the other man's gaze on him sizing him up. He remained cool. "I needed a ride and this was cheaper than a rental. I thought I would ambush his fellows, but it seems you had that well in hand."
"Better fuckin' believe it," the chef rumbled. "I don't care if you take that hunk of junk. Golden Tiger fucks might have somethin' to say about it, but hell, if they're after you maybe they'll leave my girls alone."
Pierre nodded, and then waved his shotgun over at the presently unconscious driver. "Do you mind if I take this one, too? I'm new to the area and I think he can answer some questions for me."
"Don't give a shit," came the response. The burly chef grabbed both cleavers in his right hand and stepped back to close the door, but paused. "We'll be closed but come back Friday and we'll have some fuckin' awesome lunch specials. But if that fucking dumbass Suparaman doesn't get the hint, I might just be having a lot of long pork to deal with."
The door closed abruptly.
Pierre dragged the unconscious gangbanger to the truck, and none too gently shoved him aside into the passenger's side of the seat. The Hilux turned over nicely, even if it looked like it had been imported into Thailand in the early '80s. It would do, Pierre judged, as he brought it around to pick up Claude.
"Well, we have a car," Claude commented as he placed the goggle cases and Pierre's guitar case into the bed. The former driver, whose yellow shirt presumably proclaimed him a member of the Golden Tigers, was seated between them. "And it will attract heat. But as I said, that may not be the worst idea. If we get involved in the obvious gang war here, we can earn money and gain contacts. Reputation may draw assets to us, though we also risk becoming targets."
Pierre shook his head. "So what next?"
"I see two paths, myself" Claude replied. "We can look into the history of the manuscript and try to trace it to a present owner that way. It will mean visiting the rebuilt mosque, and doing research in the municipal library, and interviewing old men and women, and so on. Boring stuff. Or we can go make a splash in Roanapur and see what happens. Interrogating this punk may be useful there. Or, I suppose you can go play mercenary while I do the research. That might also serve as a distraction to any enemies while also obscuring our purpose here."
[ ]Split Up
[ ] Stay Together
-[ ] Research the manuscript
-[ ] Get in on the action
[ ] Write-In?
"I will purchase the USAS-12 and the night-vision equipment," Pierre concluded. "Is payment by funds transfer from Credit Suisse acceptable?"
Rico nodded his head vigorously. "Most of our better customers prefer it. And so do I. Having to go run a deposit to the bank is pretty exciting at first, but after a while the shootouts get a little boring. Anyway we can finish the transaction in the back. It'll be listed as a donation to the Church, which is tax deductible in most Western countries."
[-$17,000]
Claude laughed. "Oh, well. Put me down for a pair of the goggles as well. If you have some night operation in mind it wouldn't do to come unprepared."
The transactions took a half-hour to process, after which Rico brought out their merchandise. The night vision goggles came in shiny metallic-silver cases, which Rico opened up to show off the goggles and the foam-padding keeping them secure. Pierre simply took the automatic shotgun directly, giving it a brief examination and then loading it. Rico threw in a free leather shoulder strap for the weapon as a temporary measure. It certainly fit with his trench coat, Pierre conceded.
Tim was still waiting with his taxi outside as they left. Claude slipped him another bill to cover the time idling. "Okay, hey, where to next then man?"
Pierre looked over at Claude. "I need a case for the shotgun. Something like… hmm." He thought back to the mariachi at the hotel, and a movie he had seen. "A guitar case would do. The marketplace?"
"We can get lunch there," Claude said, nodding, before looking back to Tim. "Know anywhere good?"
"There's like a small fusion place there, pretty new, but I've heard some good things about it. I can take you there, but afterward I need to split," the driver replied.
"Sounds fine," Pierre replied as he sat back in the taxi. "We need to talk later, somewhere secure. More secure than the hotel room," he said to Claude as the other man buckled in beside him.
"Of course. I'm sure some questions have occurred to you by now, and we need a plan."
Tim took them through the outskirts of Roanapur before plunging back down into the marketplace district of the city proper. It looked a bit livelier than it had earlier in the morning, but the crowds of families that Pierre expected to see, doing their daily shopping, were still mostly absent. There were a few open-air cafes and food stands doing brisk business but mostly with obvious Mafioso or armed natives.
Time let them out at an intersection just ahead of the true markets. "The restaurant's across the street," he said, pointing out a small shop in a narrow two-story building with only a pair of umbrella-shaded tables outside. "The real market's just ahead, foot traffic only, I'd be careful. It's pretty hard to get around if you don't know it, and there used to be lots of pickpockets and scammers around. Guess they haven't come back yet since the Golds shot up the place, but they will."
"I'll keep that in mind," Claude promised as he settled up with the taxi driver. "Anywhere in there to find someone selling instruments?"
"Yeah, just keep going to the left and like, listen out, there's an entire section of the market just for that," Tim said.
"We need to go there first," Pierre decided. "Carrying around an automatic shotgun openly is a bit much even for this city."
"Maybe, maybe not," Claude replied. "It is a hell of a city. Still, we can come back for a late lunch." He tipped the brim of his hat down over his forehead. "And while we're wandering you can ask questions. You've had the time to come up with some about this manuscript, haven't you?"
"Of course," Pierre replied.
The entrance to the covered marketplace loomed with a mixture of invitation and menace. Pierre heard the squawks of birds, smelt a multitude of spices, saw dried fish dangling on lines overhead, and had to throw his hands up to fend off aggressive hawkers of knick-knacks getting up from their stalls. And it was, as Tim had warned, a virtual labyrinth of narrow-winding streets and unexpected corners. As he penetrated deeper into the market, though, the few people there were more sedate. The space between stalls broadened out and he could begin to recognize a certain organization to the quadrants.
He looked around carefully, noting only a dozing shopkeeper near a tray of fake Rolexes, before speaking to Claude again. "Why isn't your contact just buying this manuscript?"
"He wasn't invited to the auction, first and foremost," Claude admitted. "And it's an underworld event. There are dangerous people with deep pockets interested in this document. Some of those people are more dangerous than he is and have deeper pockets. And even if he won, there would be bidders there who would consider doing what I think you are thinking of, which is to take it from the winner. Non?"
"Oui," Pierre admitted. "We don't have much to go on. Following the manuscript when it resurfaces seems easier than trying to find it beforehand."
"It is an option," Claude said, though he frowned at the prospect. "But we are not entirely without hope to find it before the auction. The manuscript did surface in 1944. It was being held at a mosque as part of a collection, then. Of course the Japanese burned the mosque down within the next week, which is why it was thought lost, but that might yet be a lead."
"Someone must have taken it before the Japanese torched the mosque," Pierre concluded. "But how do we know they are even in Roanapur?"
Claude shrugged. "Rumor, innuendo, plus, well, if it were being held anywhere else the auction would be someplace less… completely despicable. Hong Kong or Berne or New York. The only reason to hold it in Roanapur is that the collection is being held nearby. And it would have resurfaced much sooner almost anywhere else it could have been taken."
"You were always the smart one," Pierre said, shrugging. And he heard music coming from a corridor nearby. He shook his head, finished with the conversation for the moment.
It took a little searching to find an artisan selling the kind of case Pierre was looking for, but in the end he did. It featured a deceptively light but durable tropical hardwood shell, with a red velvet interior; and it was painted black, his favorite color. Haggling with his French-Thai Phrasebook wasted some time but brought the cost down to something reasonable. Nor did the merchant bat an eye as Pierre laid his automatic shotgun inside the case to make sure it fit. In the end, with his wallet a little lighter, Pierre took up his now decently concealed weapon and started walking back the way he had come.
[-$200; Acc -1, 2B Improvised Weapon]
Claude laughed at him when he came back out of the music quarter. "That's hahah, quite the style," he choked out. "Who are you supposed to be, Bob Dylan?"
"I always liked Johnny Cash," Pierre replied, even cracking a brief smile. "He reminded me of the folk music of the Corsican hills. The smuggler ballads and rebel songs. There is a similar thread running through them."
"My tastes run more to Verdi," Claude replied. "And my stomach is grumbling," he said with an embarrassed smile. "We should head on to that restaurant. And let's get out any more questions while we walk."
"So, why do you trust your contact? Assuming we even secure this manuscript, if he can't do so himself, it speaks to his capabilities."
Claude laughed. "He found out about the auction without being invited, which should tell you something about his connections. He's an information broker, but also an old man from Vienna. Such people don't make their reputations and livings without upholding their end of a bargain. Also he knows that I know where he lives and considered me dangerous enough to secure the manuscript in the first place. Trust me; I know what I'm doing."
Pierre nodded, but then grinned impishly. "Wasn't that what you said that night in Palermo?"
"That was years and years ago," Claude said with a dismissive wave. "And you still got out of the city thanks to my plan, didn't you? The Greone family even wound up owing us a favor after all was said and done."
"You weren't the one who had to kill an entire cell of Palestinian terrorists," Pierre replied, his grin settling back into default frown. "But I will defer to your expertise here."
He pulled a water bottle from his trench coat and drank as they wandered back out from the covered marketplace. Even in the shade it was hot, and Pierre had been sweating for a while. Having to carry the loaded guitar case and the night vision goggles didn't help. And he was getting hungry himself. It was with some relief that he reached the intersection where Tim had let them off, though it was as almost-deserted as before. At least there would be air conditioning with lunch, he hoped.
But even as that thought cross his mind, he saw something suspicious out of the corner of his eye. A Toyota Hilux passed them by, at high speed, with four men wearing gold shirts and clutching Kalashnikovs in the bed. Pierre nudged his shoulder at Claude, who nodded in response. They watched the pickup shoot over behind the restaurant, into an alleyway free from view of the street, but the armed men were soon walking back around.
"Perhaps we should make some other lunch plans," Claude suggested, as he reached for his concealed pistol. "It seems the special there is not to the liking of someone."
Pierre carefully laid his goggle case on the sidewalk, but relaxed as the men made to enter the restaurant. "Let's see how this goes," he said, laying down the guitar case as well and opening it up. The shotgun was a welcome weight in his hands. "We do need a car."
"Stealing from the local gangs, eh?" Claude shrugged. "We'll wind up stepping on someone's toes. But that might not be the worst idea."
The gangers were intent on their mission enough that Pierre let Claude stay to cover their equipment while he made to cross the street. No sooner had they burst inside the restaurant did they open fire on full automatic, the racket and fixation letting Pierre slip around the side of the building. Only amateurs would be so stupid as not to leave a lookout, but they were…
The gunfire ended abruptly as the glass of the restaurant crashed and the sound of a body thumping the pavement followed. More did. Pierre took the chance to rush into the alley, where, to his lack of surprise, the driver of the Toyota was pissing into a pile of garbage facing away from him.
"SUPARAMAAAAAAN!" A voice bellowed out from the restaurant. "Fuck you, delivering this rotten meat! Send any more goons my way and I'll butcher and tress 'em up and feed 'em to you!"
The driver turned around, eyes wide with shock. Pierre shoved the shotgun into his face a bare moment later. To his disgust the man started to babble on while wetting a spot on the floor. And then Pierre slammed the butt of the shotgun into his head, sending the ganger to the ground in a boneless collapse and sudden thud. Pierre looted his pockets for the keys.
The back door of the restaurant started open. A giant bull of a man peered out, wearing an immaculate chef's hat and a very blood-stained butcher's apron. His thick hands were grasped around a pair of heavy cleavers. "Who th' fuck are you?"
"Just passing by," Pierre responded, feeling the other man's gaze on him sizing him up. He remained cool. "I needed a ride and this was cheaper than a rental. I thought I would ambush his fellows, but it seems you had that well in hand."
"Better fuckin' believe it," the chef rumbled. "I don't care if you take that hunk of junk. Golden Tiger fucks might have somethin' to say about it, but hell, if they're after you maybe they'll leave my girls alone."
Pierre nodded, and then waved his shotgun over at the presently unconscious driver. "Do you mind if I take this one, too? I'm new to the area and I think he can answer some questions for me."
"Don't give a shit," came the response. The burly chef grabbed both cleavers in his right hand and stepped back to close the door, but paused. "We'll be closed but come back Friday and we'll have some fuckin' awesome lunch specials. But if that fucking dumbass Suparaman doesn't get the hint, I might just be having a lot of long pork to deal with."
The door closed abruptly.
Pierre dragged the unconscious gangbanger to the truck, and none too gently shoved him aside into the passenger's side of the seat. The Hilux turned over nicely, even if it looked like it had been imported into Thailand in the early '80s. It would do, Pierre judged, as he brought it around to pick up Claude.
"Well, we have a car," Claude commented as he placed the goggle cases and Pierre's guitar case into the bed. The former driver, whose yellow shirt presumably proclaimed him a member of the Golden Tigers, was seated between them. "And it will attract heat. But as I said, that may not be the worst idea. If we get involved in the obvious gang war here, we can earn money and gain contacts. Reputation may draw assets to us, though we also risk becoming targets."
Pierre shook his head. "So what next?"
"I see two paths, myself" Claude replied. "We can look into the history of the manuscript and try to trace it to a present owner that way. It will mean visiting the rebuilt mosque, and doing research in the municipal library, and interviewing old men and women, and so on. Boring stuff. Or we can go make a splash in Roanapur and see what happens. Interrogating this punk may be useful there. Or, I suppose you can go play mercenary while I do the research. That might also serve as a distraction to any enemies while also obscuring our purpose here."
[ ]Split Up
[ ] Stay Together
-[ ] Research the manuscript
-[ ] Get in on the action
[ ] Write-In?
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