Her sister-in-law closed the window shade as they flew east into the morning sunlight. “Fortunately, only a little, thanks to our relationships with the police.”
Shotarian law enforcement agencies had never had much success infiltrating the country’s insular ethnic Kekonese criminal groups. No Peak, however, possessed an effective network of White Rats in the Shotarian underworld. During his tenure as Horn, Juen Nu had calculated that the barukan gangs were a weak link in Ayt Mada’s power structure. Keko-Shotarians were an underclass in Shotar—generally impoverished, legally persecuted, accustomed to living in fear and treachery. It didn’t take much in the form of bribes or threats to induce them to give up information.
Although No Peak’s overseas spies yielded little truly useful information about the Mountain itself, since Ayt Mada would not be so careless as to share her plans with outsiders, it often did reveal the movement of money and people, which No Peak used to its advantage to blunt Ayt’s superior numbers. In an impressive example of cooperation between the military and business halves of the clan, this capability had become the Weather Man’s weapon in Shotar.
Shae was passing on information from the Horn’s side of the clan about barukan activities—major drug deals, weapons sales, prostitution rings, and so on—to Shotarian police officials, who were very willing to secretly accept tips from No Peak spies and receive all the credit from the press, the government, and the public for the resulting busts. Of course, she was not giving them this boon for nothing. Business permits, working visas, and important meetings were made to happen, and No Peak’s offices received special attention and security from the Leyolo City Police Department. The exchange had enabled the clan’s expansion into Shotar, and even skeptical Hami Tumashon had come around in support of the plan.
Wen lifted her glass to Shae’s. “Who could’ve imagined the irony of a Green Bone clan working with the Shotarian government?”
They landed in Leyolo City shortly after noon and parted ways. A prearranged car and driver were waiting to take Shae directly to the Weather Man’s branch office. Wen waited for their luggage, which Tako carried out to the parking lot behind her while Dudo inspected every inch of the rented black SUV. Satisfied with its safety, Wen’s bodyguards drove her to the Oasis Sulliya, which was not a typical downtown hotel, but a resort slightly south of the city, close to the Redwater area that was the heart of the Shotarian film industry.
Wen checked into her room, changed, ordered a light lunch from the room service menu, and called her husband to let him know she’d arrived. “Leyolo City looks as glamorous as it does in the movies,” she told him, reaching him in his study between meetings. On the drive through the city, Wen had admired the capital’s steel spires, which ranked among the highest in the world, its elevated superhighways and high-speed trams, the enormous rotating neon billboards that burned with light even in the middle of the day. So much of Leyolo City had been destroyed in the Many Nations War fifty years ago that when it was rebuilt, it had burst from the ashes like a phoenix. “It’s colder than I expected, though, for springtime.”
“Don’t spend too much money, unless you’re buying a company,” Hilo teased.
“And what if I am?” Wen asked, unable to resist prodding him.
“I’ll assume Shae put you up to it. The two of you are a bad influence on each other,” he said, in a good-natured way that made light of the past, but was still a stern reminder. No secrets. “I have to go,” he said. “Have a good time. I love you.”
In the afternoon, Wen’s bodyguards drove her to the headquarters of Diamond Light Motion Pictures. A translator, vetted and hired by the Weather Man’s office, was waiting for them and accompanied Wen as she was received at the reception desk and shown into a massive corner office. Standing behind the desk was a man wearing tinted, wire-rimmed glasses, a soul patch beard, and an expensive blue shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his thick forearms. He was probably only forty, but bald as an egg. Wen couldn’t understand the rapid Shotarian he was shouting into a headset, but he was either very excited or verbally tearing apart the person on the other end of the line. Hanging up the call, he tossed his headset down and looked over at Wen.
“Pas Guttano,” said Wen, using the respectful honorific and speaking the few formal words she’d carefully rehearsed in Shotarian. “It’s my privilege to meet you.” She pressed her hands together and touched them to her heart.