Scoundrels, Page 3

  Han felt his throat tighten. This could still be nothing. Eanjer might just be spinning cobwebs.

  But if he was telling the truth …

  “Fine,” Han said. “Let’s talk. But not here.”

  Eanjer looked back at Falsta’s body, a shiver running through him. “No,” he agreed softly. “Anyplace but here.”

  “The thief’s name is Avrak Villachor,” Eanjer said, his single eye darting around the diner Han had chosen, a more upscale place than the cantina and a prudent three blocks away. “More precisely, he’s the leader of the particular group involved. I understand he’s also affiliated with some larger criminal organization—I don’t know which one.”

  Han looked across the table at Chewbacca and raised his eyebrows. The Wookiee gave a little shrug and shook his head. Apparently he’d never heard of Villachor, either. “Yeah, there are lots to choose from,” he told Eanjer.

  “Indeed.” Eanjer looked down at his drink as if noticing it for the first time, then continued his nervous scanning of the room. “My father is—was—a very successful goods importer. Three weeks ago Villachor came to our home with a group of thugs and demanded he sign over his business to Villachor’s organization. When he refused—” A shudder ran through his body. “They killed him,” he said, his voice almost too low to hear. “They just … they didn’t even use blasters. It was some kind of fragmentation grenade. It just tore him …” He trailed off.

  “That what happened to your face?” Han asked.

  Eanjer blinked and looked up. “What? Oh.” He lifted his medsealed hand to gently touch his medsealed face. “Yes, I caught the edge of the blast. There was so much blood. They must have thought I was dead.…” He shivered, as if trying to shake away the memory. “Anyway, they took everything from his safe and left. All the corporate records, the data on our transport network, the lists of subcontractors—everything.”

  “Including a hundred sixty-three million credits?” Han asked. “Must have been a pretty big safe.”

  “Not really,” Eanjer said. “Walk-in, but nothing special. The money was in credit tabs, one million per. A hip pouch would hold them all.” He hitched his chair a little closer to the table. “But here’s the thing. Credit tabs are keyed to the owner and the owner’s designated agents. With my father now dead, I’m the only one who can get the full value out of them. For anyone else, they’re worth no more than a quarter, maybe half a percent of the face value. And that’s only if Villachor can find a slicer who can get through the security coding.”

  “That still leaves him eight hundred thousand,” Han pointed out. “Not bad for a night’s work.”

  “Which is why I have no doubt that he’s currently hunting for a slicer to do the job.” Eanjer took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. The business records Villachor stole don’t matter. All the people who worked for us were there specifically and personally because of my father, and without him they’re going to fade away into the mist. Especially since the credit tabs were on hand because we were preparing to pay out for services received. You don’t pay a shipper, he doesn’t work for you anymore.”

  Especially if that shipper was actually a smuggler, which was what Han strongly suspected was behind the family’s so-called import business. He still wasn’t sure if Eanjer himself knew that, suspected it, or was completely oblivious. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want us to break into Villachor’s place—you know where that is, by the way?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eanjer said, nodding. “It’s right here in Iltarr City. It’s an estate called Marblewood, nearly a square kilometer’s worth of grounds surrounding a big mansion.”

  “Ah,” Han said. Probably the big open space in the northern part of the city that he’d spotted as he was bringing the Falcon in. At the time, he’d guessed it was a park. “You want us to go there, break into wherever he’s keeping the credit tabs, steal them, and get out again. That about cover it?”

  “Yes,” Eanjer said. “And I’m very grateful—”

  “No.”

  Eanjer’s single eye blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got the wrong man,” Han told him. “We’re shippers, like your father. We don’t know the first thing about breaking into vaults.”

  “But surely you know people who do,” Eanjer said. “You could call them. I’ll split the credits with them, too. Everyone can have an equal share.”

  “You can call them yourself.”

  “But I don’t know any such people,” Eanjer protested, his voice pleading now. “I can’t just pick up a comlink and ask for the nearest thief. And without you—” He broke off, visibly forcing himself back under control. “I saw how you handled that man in the cantina,” he said. “You think fast and you act decisively. More important, you didn’t kill him until you had no choice. That means I can trust you to get the job done, and to deal fairly with me when it’s over.”

  Han sighed. “Look—”

  “No, you look,” Eanjer bit out, a hint of anger peeking through the frustration. “I’ve been sitting in cantinas for two solid weeks. You’re the first person I’ve found who gives me any hope at all. Villachor’s already had three weeks to find a slicer for those credit tabs. If I don’t get them out before he does, he’ll win. He’ll win everything.”

  Han looked at Chewbacca. But the Wookiee was sitting quietly, with no hint as to what he was thinking or feeling. Clearly, he was leaving this one up to Han. “Is it the credits you really want?” he asked Eanjer. “Or are you looking for vengeance?”

  Eanjer looked down at his hand. “A little of both,” he admitted.

  Han lifted his mug and took a long swallow. He was right, of course. He and Chewbacca really weren’t the ones for this job.

  But Eanjer was also right. They knew plenty of people who were.

  And with 163 million credits on the line …

  “I need to make a call,” he said, lowering his mug and pulling out his comlink.

  Eanjer nodded, making no move to leave. “Right.”

  Han paused. “A private call.”

  For another second Eanjer still didn’t move. Then, abruptly, his eye widened. “Oh,” he said, getting hastily to his feet. “Right. I’ll, uh, I’ll be back.”

  Chewbacca warbled a question. “It can’t hurt to ask around,” Han told him, keying in a number and trying to keep his voice calm. A hundred sixty-three million. Even a small slice of that would pay off Jabba a dozen times over. And not just Jabba, but everyone else who wanted a piece of Han’s head surrounded by onions on a serving dish. He could pay them all off his back, and still have enough for him and Chewie to run free and clear wherever they wanted. Maybe for the rest of their lives. “I just hope Rachele Ree’s not off on a trip somewhere.”

  To his mild surprise, she was indeed home.

  “Well, hello, Han,” she said cheerfully when Han had identified himself. “Nice to hear from you, for a change. Are you on Wukkar? Oh, yes—I see you are. Iltarr City, eh? Best Corellian food on the planet.”

  Chewbacca rumbled a comment under his breath. Han nodded sourly. His comlink was supposedly set up to prevent location backtracks, but electronic safeguards never seemed to even slow Rachele down. “Got a question,” he said. “Two questions. First, have you heard anything about a high-level break-in and murder over the last month or so? It would have been at an import company.”

  “You talking about Polestar Imports?” Rachele asked. “Sure—it was the talk of the lounges about three weeks ago. The owner was killed, and his son apparently went underground.”

  “Well, he’s bobbed back up again,” Han said. “Is the son’s name Eanjer, and was he hurt in the attack?”

  “Let me check … yes—Eanjer Kunarazti. As to whether he was hurt … the article doesn’t say. Let me check one of my other sources … yes, looks like it. His blood was found at the scene, anyway.”

  “Good enough,” Han said. He hadn’t really thought Eanjer was pulling a scam, but it never hurt
to check. “I mean, not good, but—”

  “I know what you mean,” Rachele said, with what Han could imagine was a sly smile. “Second question?”

  “Can you run a few names and see if any of them is in spitting distance of Wukkar right now?” Han asked. “Eanjer’s offered me the job of getting back the credits that were stolen.”

  “Really,” Rachele said, sounding bemused. “You been branching out since I saw you last?”

  “Not really,” Han said. Fighting a battle or two for the Rebel Alliance didn’t qualify as branching out, he told himself firmly. “He just likes the way I do things.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Rachele countered dryly. “No problem. Who are you looking for?”

  Han ran down all the names he could think of, people who were both competent and reasonably trustworthy. Considering how many years he’d spent swimming through the galaxy’s fringe, it was a surprisingly short list. He added three more names at Chewbacca’s suggestion, and pointedly ignored the Wookiee’s fourth offering. “That’s it,” he told Rachele. “If I think of anyone else, I’ll call you back.”

  “Sure,” Rachele said. “Did your new friend mention the potential take? Some of these people will want to know that up front.”

  Han smiled tightly, wishing he were there to see her expression. “If we get it all, we’ll be splitting a hundred sixty-three million.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence at the other end. “Really,” Rachele said at last. “Wow. You could practically hire Jabba himself for that amount.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll pass,” Han said. “And that number assumes Eanjer lives through the whole thing. You should probably make that clear, too.”

  “I will,” Rachele said. “So it’s all in credit tabs, huh? Makes sense. Okay, I’ll make some calls and get back to you. Does he have any idea where the credit tabs are?”

  “He says they’re with someone named Villachor,” Han said. “You know him?”

  There was another short pause. “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Rachele said, her voice subtly changed. “Okay, I’ll get started on your list. Where are you staying?”

  “Right now we’re just bunking in the Falcon.”

  “Well, you’ll eventually need something in town,” Rachele said. “Of course, everything in sight’s already been booked for the upcoming Festival. But I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Thanks, Rachele,” Han said. “I owe you.”

  “Bet on it. Catch you later.”

  Han keyed off the comlink and put it away.

  Chewbacca warbled a question.

  “Because I don’t want him, that’s why,” Han said. “I doubt he’d show up even if I asked.”

  Chewbacca growled again.

  “Because he said he never wanted to see me again, remember?” Han said. “Lando does occasionally mean what he says, you know.”

  A motion caught the edge of his eye, and he looked up to see Eanjer moving hesitantly toward them. “Is everything all right?” Eanjer asked, his eye flicking back and forth between them.

  “Sure,” Han said. “I’ve got someone looking into getting a team together.”

  “Wonderful,” Eanjer said, coming the rest of the way to the table and easing into his seat. He must have seen the end of that brief argument, Han decided, and probably thought it had been more serious than it actually had. “This person is someone you can trust?”

  Han nodded. “She’s a low-ranking member of the old Wukkar aristocracy. Knows everyone and everything, and isn’t exactly thrilled with the people who are running the show right now.”

  “If you say so,” Eanjer said. He didn’t sound entirely convinced, but it was clear he wasn’t ready to press the issue. “I think I’ve come up with a perfect time for the break-in. Two weeks from now is the Festival of Four Honorings.”

  Han looked at Chewbacca, got a shrug in return. “Never heard of it,” he told Eanjer.

  “It’s Wukkar’s version of Carnival Week,” Eanjer said, his lip twisting. “Anything Imperial Center does, someone here has to do better. Anyway, it’s a seven-day event with a day each devoted to stone, air, water, and fire, with a prep day in between each of the Honorings. It’s the most important event on Wukkar, with people coming from as far away as Vuma and Imperial Center to attend.”

  “And probably pickpockets from as far away as Nal Hutta,” Han murmured.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Eanjer said. “My point is that Villachor hosts one of the city’s biggest celebrations on his grounds.”

  Han sat up a little straighter. “On his grounds? You mean he lets people wander around right next to his house?”

  “More a mansion than a house,” Eanjer said. “Or perhaps more a fortress than a mansion. But yes, thousands of people come and go freely over those four days.”

  Chewbacca warbled the obvious point. “Of course he’ll have beefed-up security,” Han agreed. “But at least we won’t have to get over any walls and through an outer sentry line. How do we get an invitation to this thing?”

  “None needed,” Eanjer said. “It’s open to all.” The half of his mouth that was visible curved upward in a bitter smile. “Villachor likes to style himself as a philanthropist and a friend of the city. He also likes to show off his wealth and style.”

  “That’s okay,” Han said. “Some of my best deals came from people who thought they were better and smarter than everyone else. This might actually work.”

  “Then you’ll help me?” Eanjer asked hopefully.

  “Let’s first see what Rachele comes up with,” Han said. “I’ve got some ideas, but like I said before, this isn’t our specialty. But if we can get the people I need, we should at least have a shot.”

  “Make sure they know what’s involved,” Eanjer said. “A hundred and sixty-three million.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” Han said. “Give me your comlink number, and I’ll call when we’ve got more to talk about.”

  “All right,” Eanjer said a bit uncertainly as he dug out a data card and handed it over. “When will that be?”

  “When,” Han said with exaggerated patience, “we’ve got more to talk about.”

  They were back at the Falcon when Rachele’s report came in.

  As usual with life, the results were mixed. Many of the people Han had hoped to contact were out of touch, out of the immediate area, or temporarily out of circulation. Others who might otherwise have been possibilities would take too long to get hold of, especially with the two-week countdown to the Festival that Eanjer was looking at.

  And there were a couple who were unavailable themselves but had people they could recommend. Mazzic, in particular, had already grabbed the initiative and informed Rachele that he would be sending two new recruits who matched the skills of the ones Han had asked about.

  Chewbacca wasn’t at all sure he liked that. “Yeah, me neither,” Han agreed, frowning at the note Rachele had sent. Still, Han had known Mazzic for a number of years, and he and Chewbacca had occasionally run cargoes for him and his small smuggling organization. Mazzic had shown himself both trustworthy and competent.

  More to the point, he was notorious for not trusting anyone himself until he’d thoroughly checked out the candidate. If he was okay with these recruits, they were probably safe enough.

  Unless he was trying to get back at Han for something. But that was unlikely. Han hadn’t done anything to Mazzic, not that he could remember. Certainly not lately.

  Chewbacca grunted a question.

  “I guess we go hunting,” Han told him, levering himself to his feet. “Go fire up the Falcon. I’ll see about getting us a liftoff slot.”

  The rooftop defenses were intriguing.

  The long slide down the syntherope was exhilarating.

  The window security was a joke.

  Bink Kitik shook her head as she focused the medical laser beam through the transparisteel onto the alarm connector. Most amateur thieves who got this far, she knew, would use
the laser to slice all the way through the link, successfully disconnecting the primary alarm but at the same time activating the impedance circuit that would trigger the secondary. Bink’s more subtle approach, burning the connector just enough to melt the wires into a short circuit, would leave all the warning bells intact but quickly and smoothly drain the alarm’s power cell and render it useless.

  She finished her cut and put away the laser, checking the time as she did so. Twenty seconds, no more, and the alarm should be deactivated.

  “Sitch?” Her sister’s strained voice came over the comlink clip on her shoulder.

  Bink smiled fondly. Tavia hated Bink’s work—hated every single minute, every single aspect, every single job. But even with all that, she was still far and away the best groundliner Bink had ever worked with.

  Tavia also worried like a mother hen—this was her fourth situation check since Bink had emerged onto the roof. “Sitch go,” Bink assured her. “Twenty to pen.”

  She gave it thirty seconds, just to be on the safe side. Then, activating her vibroscalp, she began cutting gently through the transparisteel, wondering idly whether the people who designed such wonderful medical instruments ever realized how useful they would be to a resourceful ghost burglar. Probably not.

  She finished her cut and exchanged the vibroscalp for a probe, easing it in through the new opening and tapping the window release. It slid open, nearly but not quite catching the probe as she hastily withdrew it, and she was in. She pulled herself up on the sill, making sure not to tangle her harness—

  “Whoa! What the—?”

  Reflexively, Bink grabbed for her hold-out blaster. “Tav?” she whispered urgently.

  “It’s okay,” Tavia said, the startlement mostly gone from her voice. Mostly. “I was just—it’s okay,” she repeated. “Everything’s crankapacky. Just keep going.”

  Bink frowned. Crankapacky was the correct private code word for no problem. But what in the galaxy could have made her normally cool if overly judgmental sister jump like that without being a problem? “Should I bail?”