"The preparations are complete, Your Excellency," declared Brant. The middle-aged man had been talking for a long time on the telephone located in the VIP lounge. After he finally put down the receiver, he flashed a foxlike smile at the person occupying the sofa. "We don't need to worry any longer about when he's coming."
An aging man whose massive figure sunk deep into the lounge sofa smiled wryly at his servile but somewhat-cocky report. "I'm not particularly worried, police commissioner," said Darsus.
A blue veil of darkness already had fallen on the airport, which was visible from the ship's broadside window. As he gazed at the lights guiding the airship into the hangar, wavering like will-o'-the-wisps through the continuous downpour, the old man—Thierry Darsus, Count of Brussels—bestowed a generous smile upon his Terran. "You did say Watteau? His remarkable ability killed Carrel and Memlink—he's a Terran, after all. But it will be difficult to get through very far. Never mind that, Brant—you'd better calm down a little. Tonight is your first and biggest job since you assumed the office of police commissioner. Try not to fail by being too enthusiastic."
"I will take that point very much to heart," Brant replied. Louis Brant, the middle-aged man who had accepted the new post of Alliance Police Commissioner following the resignation of former Police Commissioner Jan van Maylen, wore a fawning smile. He rubbed his hands—and if he had a tail, he certainly would've been wagging it. "Tonight, there won't be one civilian in the airport. All the passengers, service workers—even the maintenance personnel—actually will be two hundred policemen in plain clothes. As soon as that priest, Hugue de Watteau, sets foot in the airport, we'll restrain him at once."
"Do the policemen know Watteau's face? Also, there surely will be people among them who supported the Watteau family. How did you explain the situation to them?" asked Darsus.
"I told them that he's an international terrorist who attacked former Police Commissioner Jan van Maylen," Brant replied. His smiling face, with its protruding front teeth, was undeniably vulgar, but Brant's practical business ability had been highly esteemed from the time he had been vice commissioner. "Ten years ago, Hugue de Watteau slaughtered his family, including his father. After that, he engaged in terrorist activity as a fugitive, but he recently returned to his old home. Tonight, he's planning to attack the ship Omegang and indiscriminately slaughter its passengers. That's how I explained it to the policemen."
Darsus nodded, stroking his black eyebrows—the only thing among his pure white hair and whiskers that looked oily. When he put the glass he picked up to his mouth, he thanked his subordinate, who continued trying to brag about his achievements. "Thank you, Brant. I'll expect good news from you later. Shall I go soon, too?" asked Darsus.
Brant regarded Darsus with a surprised face. The old vampire finished his wine in one gulp and stood up, dusting off his cuffs. "Where are you going, Your Excellency?" asked Brant. "Will you meet and attack Watteau on this ship?"
"Meet and attack him? Me—for one Terran? There's no need for that," said Darsus. As he put on the jacket the maid had reverently handed him, Darsus smiled generously. "I'll leave him to the Terrans. Never mind that, Brant—you come with me. Let's go back to the mansion and have a drink."
"N-no, but . . ." Brant's face clouded. Having put on such a grand show only moments earlier, a person as timid as he was probably was ashamed about leaving the scene in the middle of a large job and refused, incoherently. "Regardless of whether it's temporary, we can get revenge for Count Amsterdam and Count Antwerp. Did Your Excellency consider witnessing Watteau's demise personally?"
"You've already taken enough measures and the result already is in view. Besides, you'll never calm down here. I think I'll sit down," said Darsus, whose eyes twinkled mischievously. As he struck the carpet with the stick in his hand, his smile turned devilish.
Brant grew suspicious as he scanned the countless wooden boxes lined up beneath the rolled-up carpet. "What are those, Your Excellency?"
"These? Just bombs," Darsus replied calmly.
The police commissioner leaned backward, twisting his squirrelly face. "B-bombs?"
Darsus laughed, revealing a rare glimpse at his prankster spirit. "It's not that I don't trust you, but my style is to take the utmost care. If Hugue de Watteau manages to break through the police and make it this far, I'll activate these bombs at once. By the time he puts one foot on the gangplank, not even his bones will remain. One ship and the lives of fifty crew members—don't you think that's a cheap price to pay to bid good riddance to the man who has tormented us?"
The eldest member of Count Four was considered to be a moderate, but Brant had heard that Darsus' methods were so brutal that they had been feared by fellow members of his own tribe. Brant was left speechless, confronted with a brand of cold-bloodedness he'd never before encountered. Was this monster suggesting that he'd blow up a ship and use fifty crew members as bait in order to finish off one man?
As the police commissioner held his breath, the old man turned down the carpet and began slowly exiting the room. Standing tall, he laughed pleasantly. "Well, c'mon, Brant. I set some red wine aside in the mansion. Why don't we open it and drink it leisurely tonight?" asked Darsus.