Read Online Diplomat at Arms by Keith Laumer - Free Book Online

bluffing.”
    Retief leaned closer. “In my place—would you hesitate?” he
asked softly.
    Taine
cursed, struggled to break free, eyes on the cigar.
    “What kind of diplomat are you?” he snarled.
    “The modern variety; throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and
stiletto work were popular in Machiavelli’s time; nowadays we go in more for
the administrative approach—but the cigar-end still has its role.”
    “Look—we can come to an agreement—”
    “What’s the Birthday Cake?” Retief snapped.
    “I’m in a position to do a lot for you—”
    “Last chance—”
    “It’s the official Residence of the Manager-General!” Taine
screeched, writhing away from the cigar.
    “Where is it? Talk fast!”
    “You’ll never get close! There’s a seven-foot wall and by
this time the grounds are swarming with Sozier’s men—”
    “Nevertheless, I want to know where it is—and the information
had better be good. If I don’t come back, you’ll have a long wait.”
    Taine groaned. “All right. Put that damned cigar away. I’ll
tell you what I can . . .”
     
    Retief
stood in the shadow of a vine-grown wall, watching the five-man guard detail at
the main gate to the Residence grounds. The bluish light of the Glavian
satellite reflected from the rain-pocked street, glinted from the leaves of a
massive tree ten yards from the gate. The chill in the air cut through Retief’s
wet clothes; the men at the gate huddled, hands in pockets, coat collars turned
up, backs to the wind—and to Retief. He moved silently forward, caught a low
branch of the tree, pulled himself up. The men at the gate exchanged muttered
remarks. One lit a cigarette. Retief waited, then moved higher. The guards
talked in low voices, edged closer to the shelter of the gate-house. Retief lowered
himself onto the wall, dropped down onto the sodden lawn, crouched, waiting.
There was no alarm.
    Through the trees the dark shape of the house loomed up, its
top story defiantly ablaze with lights. Retief moved off silently, from the
shadow of one tree to the next, swinging in an arc that would bring him to the
rear of the great round structure. He froze as the heavy footfalls of one of
Sozier’s pickets slogged past five yards from him, then moved on. The glow of a
camp-fire flickered near the front of the house. Retief could make out the
shapes of men around it—a dozen or two, at least. Probably as many more warmed
themselves at each of the other fires visible on the grounds—and most of the
rest had doubtless found dryer shelter in the lee of the house itself.
    Retief reached the conservatory at the rear of the house,
studied the dark path leading to the broad terrace, picked out the squat shape
of the utilities manifold behind a screen of shrubbery. So far, Taine’s
information had been accurate. The next step was to—
    There was a faint sound from high above, followed by a
whoosh!— Then, with a sharp crack, a flare appeared overhead, rocking
gracefully, floating down gently under a small parachute. Below it, inky
shadows rocked in unison. In the raw white light, Retief counted eighteen men
clinging to handholds on the side of the house, immobile in the pitiless glare.
Above them, a face appeared, then a second, peering over the edge of the
fourth-story gallery. Both figures rose, unlimbering four-foot bows, fitting
arrows to strings—
    Whok! Whok! Two men lost their holds and fell, yelling, to
slam into the heavy shrubbery. A second flight of arrows found marks. Retief
watched from the shadows as man after man dropped to flounder in the wet
foliage. Several jumped before the deadly bows were turned on them. As the
flare faded, the last of the men plunged down to crash among their fellows.
Retief stepped out, ran swiftly to the manifold, forcing his way among the
close-growing screen, scrambled to its top. His hand fell on a spent arrow. He
picked it up. It was a stout wooden shaft twenty inches long, terminating in a
rubber suction cup.