[Legacy Of The Force] - 04(23)

Get assassinated, Wedge thought. Maybe you personally won’t have anything to do with it, even in thought or intent, but someone in your government will. “Back to my memoirs. Maybe give my daughter some flying lessons.”

“That’s Myri, correct? Congratulations on her recent graduation. I understand Corellian Intelligence has made her an employment offer.”

Wedge nodded. “So has the Galactic Alliance Intelligence Service, a bit more covertly.”

Gejjen almost missed a step as he walked. He looked sharply at Wedge. “You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m not. The Alliance risks an undercover contact in Coronet to try to recruit my daughter as a double agent? I’m a proud father.” Gejjen’s suspicious look didn’t waver, so he added, “Oh, don’t worry. She didn’t take the offer.”

“And she reported everything she knew about that recruiter to CorSec, I assume.”

“Of course not. Her mother and the institute taught her too well for that. That recruiter now falls into the category of one of her personal set of contacts. Maybe she’ll choose to suborn him. Or use him for some other purpose.”

Gejjen shook his head. “I really prefer to think that you’re just kidding me.”

Wedge nodded, affable. “You do that.” He came to a stop beside a door leading into a refresher. “I need to make a quick stop. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Don’t forget the dinner three nights from now.”

“I won’t.”

Gejjen and his bodyguards continued on their way. Wedge ducked into the refresher.

That dinner, a testimonial affair arranged to celebrate his retirement, was one piece of evidence pointing to the unlikelihood of an assassination attempt occurring today. Public appearances were the events where it would be easiest to eliminate him, and he had only two scheduled today’s holonews conference and the dinner. Nothing had happened at the conference, so the dinner became the next most likely opportunity.

But as Iella had pointed out, the story was just too good, too fulfilling to the public if he were to die today. Minutes after stepping down from his position as military Supreme Commander o f Corellia, Wedge Antilles was cut down by an Alliance assassin … The viewing audiences would sympathize and say “Of course,” and Wedge’s life would fall into a neat little pile of perspective for them.

Once in the refresher, Wedge took a quick look around, making sure that no one waited in any of the stalls or the sanisteam unit at the end. He peered out the door again, assuring himself that the only beings in sight were Gejjen and party, now meters away and continuing toward the building’s exterior doors.

From under his tunic, Wedge pulled a government printed sign that read FACILITIES UNDER REPAIR. He pressed it to the front of the door, to which it adhered; then he shut and locked the door.

His package was waiting for him where it was supposed to be, affixed out of sight under the sink. He pulled the anonymous gray bag free and opened it on the sink counter.

Inside were a change of clothing-lightweight black pants, shirt, shoes, cap, belt-and a jacket decorated on its back with a view of Centerpoint Station. The long, lumpy, unlovely space station was now a rallying symbol for Corellians, and there were hundreds of thousands of jackets just like this one being worn on the streets.

Wrapped up in the clothes were a sun visor to conceal his eyes and a DH-17 blaster pistol, scoped, the precise pattern of venting on its barrel indicating that it was not of recent manufacture. But its gleaming black surface suggested that it had been meticulously maintained or recently restored. Wedge didn’t care for the DH-17 as much as some other models-the grip angle prevented it from being a natural pointer for him-but it was a good weapon, and Iella was sure to have found one that could not be traced back to the Antilles family.

Hastily he shed his white admiral’s uniform, tossing it into the sanisteam stall, and dressed in the garments from the bag. He put the DH-17 into the right-hand jacket pocket and kept his hold-out blaster, a smaller, less powerful weapon, in its little holster at the base of his spine.

Finally he looked at himself in the mirror.

Staring back at him was Wedge Antilles in a Centerpoint jacket and a visor over his eyes.

He sighed. Disguise never had been his strong suit. But at least someone fixated on looking for a man in an admiral’s uniform might miss him.

Two minutes later he exited a side door of the government building, well away from the public front exit and the rear access that were the most likely points for his departure, and merged instantly with pedestrian traffic. At the same time he gave his comlink a click.