MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

thousand feet

“I don't know if this will work," said Paulette. "I've never done it before."

"Don't worry, they'll have set this up to be fail-safe. Believe me, we had enough trouble cracking their communication security—they know what they're doing. You may not get an immediate answer, but they'll know you paged them."

"I don't know how you can sit there and be so calm about it!"

Mike shrugged. "I've had a long time to get used to the idea," he said. Not exactly true: He'd had a couple of weeks. But the stench of bureaucratic excess, the penumbra of the inquisition, had clouded his entire period of service at the Family Trade Organization. "Sometimes you can smell it when the place you work, when there's a bad atmosphere? When people are doing stuff that

isn't quite right?

But nobody says anything, so you think it's just you, and you're afraid to speak out."

Paulie nodded. "Like Enron."

"Like—more than Enron, I guess; like the CIA in the early seventies, when they were out of control. Throwing people out of helicopters in Vietnam, mounting coups in South America. It's like they say, fish rot from the head down."

She lifted the phone handset she'd been gripping with bony fingers and hesitantly punched in an area code, and then a number. "We did an in-depth on Enron. It was just unbelievable, what was going on there." The phone rang, unanswered; she let it continue for ten seconds, then neatly ended the call. "What's next?"

Mike consulted the handwritten list she'd given him. "Second number, ring for four seconds, at least one minute after ending the first call." She didn't need him to do this: She could read it herself, easily enough. But company helped. "The hardest part of being a whistle-blower is being on your own, on the outside. Everybody telling you to shut the hell up, stop rocking the boat, keep your head down and work at whatever the wise heads have put in front of you. Hmm. Area code 414—"

Paulie dialed the second number, let it ring for four seconds, then disconnected. "I did an interview with Sherron Watkins, you know? When the whole Enron thing blew up. She said that, too, pretty much." She stabbed the phone at him. "Harder to blow the whistle on these guys, let me tell you. Much harder."

"I know it." He stared at the third number on the list. "On the other hand, they're not your regular gangsters: They think like a government."

"Some folks say, governments

are

gangsters. A bunch of guys with guns who demand money, right?"

"There's a difference of approach. Gangsters aren't part of the community. They don't put anything back into it, they don't build roads and schools, they just take the money and run. Governments think differently. At least, working ones do."

"But the Clan take money out of

our

communities. They don't spend it on

us,

do they? From our point of view they're like gangsters."

"Or an empire." Mike turned the thought around, examining it from different angles. "Like the Soviet Union, the way they drained resources from outlying territories." There was something not quite right with the metaphor, if he could just figure it out. "Oh, next number time. Area code is 506—"

They worked down the list over the course of an hour, as the jug of coffee cooled and the evening shadows lengthened outside. There were five numbers to call for varying lengths of time, at set minimum intervals; the third had an annoying voice menu system to navigate, asking for a quotation for auto insurance, and the fifth—answered in an Indian call center somewhere—was the only one with human interaction required: "Sorry, wrong number."

The whole tedious business was necessary for several reasons. A couple of random numbers to make traffic analysis harder; a couple of flags to say

I need to talk

and

I am not under duress;

and words spoken into a recording device to prove that the contact was, in fact, Paulette Milan, and not an agent in an FTO office. There were other rituals to perform: the curtains to be left undrawn in the spare bedroom but drawn in the main, a light to be left on inside the front door. Rituals of tradecraft, the magic rite of summoning spies, impenetrable to outsiders but practiced for good reason by those on the inside.

Someone sets up a small but highly professional intelligence agency. Question: Where do they get their training? Given that we know their soldiers use the USMC as a finishing school . . .

Mike pondered for a moment, then winced. Every one of the possible answers that came to mind was disturbing.

Finally they were done. "I should hear back within twenty-four hours," Paulie said diffidently. She paused.

What now?

he wondered.

"I've been staying in a motel." It would be racking up another night's charges. The idea of driving back there to spend another night in silence abruptly made him nauseous. "Don't get me wrong, but I think I should be here if they come unexpectedly—"

She looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. "You can use the spare bedroom if you like. There's spare bedding in the closet."

"Thank you." To fill the potentially awkward silence he added, "I feel like I'm imposing on you." He'd had his fill of silence: Silence concealed lies. "Can I buy you dinner?"

"Guess so." The set of her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Where did you meet Miriam, the first time?"

The sky was overcast, and the muggy onshore breeze blew a stink of fish guts and coal smoke across the streets, gusting occasionally to moan and rattle around the chimney stacks—the barometer was falling, a rain front threatening to break the summer heat.

Driving sixty miles over the poor-quality roads in a pair of steamers with leaf-spring suspensions had taken them the best part of four hours, but they'd started early and the purposeful-looking convoy had apparently convinced the more opportunistic highwaymen to keep a low profile. The only delays they encountered were a couple of checkpoints manned by volunteer militias, and as these were mostly concerned with keeping the starving robber gangs out of their suburbs, Miriam's party were waved through—a rapid progress doubtless greased by the low-denomination banknotes interleaved between the pages of the inkjet-forged Vehicle Pilot's Warrants that Huw and Alasdair presented when challenged. It was, perhaps, for the best that the militiamen's concupiscience avoided the need for a search: much better to hand over a few hundred million New Crown notes than to risk a brisk and very one-sided exchange of gunfire.

"Did you see that?" Brill asked Miriam indignantly as they left the second checkpoint: "Half of them were carrying pitchforks! And the one with the bent nose, his tines were rusty!"

There were few obvious signs of revolution as they drove through the outskirts of Boston. More men and women in the streets, perhaps, hanging out in small groups; but with the economy spiraling into a true deflationary depression and unemployment nearing fifty percent, that was hardly surprising. There were soup kitchens, true, and the street cars bore banners proclaiming that the People's Party would feed the needy at certain listed locations—but there were also fishmongers and grocery stalls with their wares laid out in front, and the district farmer's market they passed was the usual chaos of handcarts and wagons piled high with food.

Someone

was keeping things moving, between town and country—a good sign, as far as Miriam could tell.

And then they were into familiar streets and the second car turned off, heading for its prearranged rendezvous point. "I'll get out here and walk the rest of the way," Miriam said quietly as they sat behind a streetcar that had stopped for a horse-drawn wagon to unload some crates. "You know the block. I'll remember to press once every ten minutes while things are going well."

"Check it now," said Brilliana, holding up her own earpiece.

"Check." Miriam squeezed her left hand, inside a coat pocket. Brill's unit beeped. "Okay, we're in business."

Brilliana caught her arm as she opened the door. "Take care, my lady. And if you sense trouble—"

"There won't be any trouble," Miriam said firmly.

Not with Sir Alasdair and his team watching my back.

If there was any trouble, if she was walking into a baited trap rather than a safe meeting, things would get spectacularly messy for the troublemakers. It wasn't just a matter of them having modern automatic weapons, two-way radios, and the ability to world-walk out of danger: Alasdair had cherry-picked the best men he could find in Clan Security for her bodyguard, and they'd planned and rehearsed this meeting carefully. "I'll be fine."

There was an alleyway, off the high street between two shuttered shopfronts; partway along it stood a tenement with its own shuttered frontage, and the three gilt balls of a pawnbroker hanging above the doorway. Miriam walked back along the pavement and turned in to the alleyway. There were no obvious watchers, nor loitering muggers. She marched up to the door beside the wooden shuttered window and yanked the bell-pull.

A few seconds later the door opened. "Come in, come in!" It was Erasmus, his face alight with evident pleasure. Miriam drew a deep breath of relief and stepped across the threshold. "How have you been?" he asked. "I've been worried—"

The door swung to behind her, and she took a step forward, ending up in his arms with her chin on his shoulder. He hugged her gingerly, as if afraid she might break. "It's been crazy," she confessed, hugging him back. "I've missed you too." Erasmus let go and straightened up awkwardly. "There's been a lot happening, much of it bad."

"Indeed, yes—" He took a step back, into the shadowy interior of the shop. "Excuse me." He turned and pushed a button that had been screwed crudely to the wall beside the door. A buzzer sounded somewhere below, in the cellars. "An all-clear sign. Just a precaution." He shrugged apologetically. "Otherwise they won't let me out of their sight."

Miriam glanced round. "I know that problem." The shop was just as she'd last seen it, albeit dustier and more neglected. But there was a light on in the back room, and a creaking sound. "Do you want to talk in front of company?"

"We'll be in the morning room upstairs, Frank," Erasmus called through the doorway, his voice a lot stronger than when she'd first met him.

"Are you sure?" Frank, staying unseen in the back room, had a rough voice.

"You've got the exit guarded. You've got the area covered. I will personally vouch for Miss Beckstein's trustworthiness; without her I wouldn't be alive for you to nanny me. But your ears are not safe for this discussion. Do you understand?"

Frank chuckled grimly. "Aye, citizen. But all the same, if I don't hear from you inside half an hour, I'll be coming up to check on you by and by. It's what Sir Adam would expect of me."

Erasmus shrugged apologetically at Miriam. "This way," he mouthed, then turned and opened the side door onto the tenement stairwell. Halfway up the staircase he added, "I should apologize for Frank. But he's doing no less than his duty. Even getting this much time to myself is difficult."

"Uh, yes." Miriam waited while Erasmus opened the door to the morning room. Dust sheets covered the piano and the villainous, ancient sofa. He stripped the latter one off, sneezing as he shook it out and cast it atop the piano stool. "My, I haven't been back here in months."

Miriam sat down carefully. Then, remembering, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie. "Miriam here. Stand down, repeat, stand down. Over." She caught Erasmus staring at the device. "I have guards, too." It beeped twice, Brill acknowledging; she slid it away. "Please, sit down," she asked, gesturing at the other side of the sofa.

"You have a habit of surprising me." Erasmus folded himself into the far corner. "Please don't stop."

"Not if I can help it." She tried to smile, belying the tension in her stomach. "How's it going, anyway?"

"How's what going?" He waved a hand at the piano, the dusty fly-specked windows, the world beyond. "I never thought I'd live this long. Never thought I'd see the end of the tyranny, either. Nor that Sir Adam would come back and form a government, much less that he'd ask me to—well. How about yourself? What has happened to you since we last met? Nothing too trying, I hope?" His raised eyebrow was camouflage, she realized.

He's worried. About me?

She pushed the thought aside.

"Madness—bedlam," she translated. "Let me see if I can explain this. . . . I told you about the Clan? My relations?" He nodded. "Things went bad, very fast. You know what I was trying to do, the business. Brake pads, disk brakes. Their conservatives—they spiked it. Meanwhile, they tried to shut me up. Apparently a full-scale civil war broke out back home. And the conservative faction also discovered that the other—you know the world I came from isn't the one the Clan live in?—that other America, they found out about the Clan. To cut a long story short, the Clan conservatives tried to decapitate the American government, and at the same time, tried to kill the progressive faction. They failed on both counts. But now the US military are winding up for war on the Clan, and it looks like they might be able to build machinery for moving their weapons between worlds. It's not magic, Erasmus, it's some kind of physical phenomenon, and their scientists—they're better than you can imagine."

Burgeson shook his head. "This isn't making much sense—"

"I'm telling it wrong." She screwed up her eyes and took a deep breath. "Erasmus, let me start again?"

"For you, anything." He smiled briefly.

"Okay." She opened her eyes and exhaled. "The Clan exists as a family business, trading between worlds. A group of us—several hundred—believe that we have irrevocably fouled up our relationship with the world of the United States. That the United States military will soon have the power to attack the Gruinmarkt. Nowhere in the world the Clan lives in is safe. We are fairly certain that the US military doesn't know about

your

world, or at least has no way of reaching it directly—you can't get there from here without going via the Gruinmarkt. So I've got a proposal for you. We need somewhere to live—somewhere relatively safe, somewhere we haven't shat in the bed. Somewhere like New Britain. In return, we can offer you . . . well, my people have been busy grabbing all the science and engineering references they can get their hands on.

"The United States is sixty to eighty years ahead of you, although it might as well be two hundred—we can't promise to bridge that gap instantly, but we

can

show your engineers and scientists where to look. Right now you've got a hostile French empire off your shore. There are strategies and weapons technologies we can look up in the American history books that are decades ahead of anything the French—or your—navy can muster. And other stuff; see what their economists say, for example, or their historians."

"Ah." Erasmus nodded to himself. "That's an interesting idea." He paused. "What do your aristocratic cousins say about this idea? You are aware that we have recently held a revolution against the idea of autocracy and the landed gentry . . . ?"

"The ones you're worried about won't be coming, Erasmus. We're on the edge of a permanent split. The people who're listening to me—the progressives—the United States had their revolution more than two hundred years ago, remember that history I gave you?" He nodded. "For decades, the Clan has been educating its children in the United States. I'm unusual only in degree—my mother went the whole way, and raised me there from infancy. There's a pronounced split between the generation that has been exposed to American culture, education, and ideas, and the backwoods nobility of the Gruinmarkt; the Clan has found it increasingly hard to hold these two factions together for decades now. And those are the people I'd be bringing—those Clan members who'd rather be live refugees in a progressive republic than dead nobles clinging to the smoking wreckage of the old order. People whose idea of a world they'd like to live in is compatible with your party's ideology. All they want is a reasonable expectation of being able to live in peace."

"Oh, Miriam." Erasmus shook his head. "I would be very happy if I could offer you the assurance you want. Unfortunately" —she tensed—"I'd be lying if I said I could." He held out his hand towards her. She stared at it for a moment, then reached out and took it. "There is

no

certainty here.

None.

Those books you gave me, the histories of your America, they offer no reassurance. We are at war with an internal enemy who will show us no quarter if we lose, and our people are hungry, angry, and desperate. This is a governance of emergency. We hold the east coast and the west, and the major cities, but some of the small towns—" He shook his head. "The south, the southern continent, the big plantations there—the fighting is bloody and merciless. You shouldn't expect aid or comfort of us, Miriam. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. One of your American wise men said, the tree of liberty has to be watered with the blood of patriots. He wasn't exaggerating. My job is to, to try and hide what goes into the watering can. To put a good face on murder. You shouldn't expect too much of me."

Miriam stared at him for a long moment. "All right." She pulled on his hand gently. "Let's forget the living-in-peace bit. Can you protect us if we deliver? During the crisis, I mean. We help you develop the industrial mechanisms to defeat your external enemies. Can you, in return, keep the police off us?"

"The police, Reynolds and his Internal Security apparatus—" His expression clouded. "As long as I'm not arrested myself,

that

I can manage. I've got leverage. Bentley and Crowe owe me, Williams needs my support—but best if it comes from the top, though, from Sir Adam and with the approval of the steering committee of the People's Council. Would be best if we kept it under wraps, though, especially if your first task is to build new factories for the war effort. Hmm."

There was a creak from outside the morning-room door, then a throat-clearing: "Be you folks decent?"

Erasmus's head whipped round. "Yes, everything is fine," he called.

"Just so, just so." It was Frank, the unseen bodyguard. He sounded amused.

"You can go away now," Erasmus added sharply.

A moment later Miriam heard a heavy tread descending the stairs, no longer stealthy. She looked at Erasmus. "Does he think we're—"

Erasmus looked back at her. "I don't

know

he thinks that, but it would make a good cover story, wouldn't you agree?"

"If we—" She stopped, feeling her ears heat.

Sitting on the sofa, holding hands.

She hadn't given much thought to that sort of thing—not since Roland's death. She let go of his fingers hastily.

"I'll need to make inquiries," said Erasmus. He let his hand fall. "Meanwhile, that big house you bought—I'll see it's left alone. If you follow me."

Miriam swallowed. "How long?" she asked, trying to regain control.

"You called me back from a, a marketing campaign. I'll have to see it's running smoothly. Then report to the Council, and talk to certain people. It could take months."

"I'm not sure we've got months."

"If you can come up with concrete proposals, I can probably hasten the process. Nothing too amazing, but if you can think of something concrete: smaller telautographs, better aircraft engines . . . ?"

"We can do that." Miriam swallowed. "I can have a written proposal ready next week."

That sort of target should be easy enough,

she thought: Someone had mentioned a flyer in the Clan who'd smuggled an ultralight into the Gruinmarkt against orders.

Find him, tell him what's needed, and pull the trigger.

Even a Second World War–era fighter plane would make an impressively futuristic demo in the skies above New London. "Let's meet here again. Next week?"

He nodded conspiratorially. "Come at the same time. I'll have something for you."

"I'll do that," she said automatically, then thought,

What?

"What kind of something?"

"Documents. A warrant pass. A tele number to call on." Erasmus rose to his feet, then offered her a hand. She took it, levering herself out of the collapsed cushion.

"Do you really think Frank believes we're having an affair?"

He leaned close to her ear. "Frank reports regularly to Oswald Sartorius, who is secretary in charge of state intelligence. He doesn't realize I know, and I would appreciate your not telling him. It would be safest for you if Oswald thinks we are having an affair; that way you need only worry about being arrested if he decides to move on me, and he will believe you to be of more value alive than dead. If he learns you represent a power center . . . Oswald wants what's best for state intelligence; he is no more dangerous than a shark, as long as you stay out of the water."

Miriam froze, feeling his breath on her cheek. "Is it that bad?"

"I don't know." He sounded uncertain. "So please be careful."

"You're the second person who's said that to me today." It was disturbing: It meant more to her than she'd anticipated.

"You be careful too."

"I will be." He gestured at the door. "After you. . . ."

BEGIN PHONE TRANSCRIPT

(Groggy.) "Yes? Who is this?"

"Sir? This is BLOWTORCH. Duty officer speaking. Can you confirm your identity, please?"

(Pause.) "I'm KINGPIN. Is this line secure—"

"Not yet sir, if you'd like to press button four on your secure terminal now—"

(Click.) "Okay, I'm scrambling. What time—Jesus, this had better be good. What's the call, son?"

"Sir, we've, uh, there's a medical alert over WARBUCKS."

"It's definitely medical? The usual problem?"

"Sir, it may be worse this time. Don Ensenat says it would be best if you were up and alert—"

"Damn. How bad is it?"

"Sir, we have, uh, the cardiac crash team are trying to resuscitate, but as of now WARBUCKS is medically unfit. They've got him in transit to PIVOT and there's an operating theater standing by, but it doesn't look good. Sir, we're trying to contact Chief Justice Scalia as per the new continuity of government provisions but it's four in the morning in New York where he's—"

"Son. Stop right there." (Rustling.) "I'm just waking up here. I'll be in the operations center in five minutes: Get a team ready to take me to PAVILION, ready to leave in fifteen. Keep me informed if there's any change in WARBUCKS's condition, if he recovers or . . . not."

"Yes, sir."

"He'll hang in there. He's a tough old bird."

"I sure hope so, sir. Hell of a thing. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, son, just get me that transport."

"Thank you sir. Goodbye and God bless."

(Click.)

(Softly.) "Christ on a crutch."

END PHONE TRANSCRIPT

"Ah, Erasmus. Come in, sit down. How are you?"

"I'm well, citizen. Thank you." It was a small office, surprisingly cramped in view of the seniority of its occupant. Windowless, which was clearly one of the features that had commended it to Sir Adam's security detail. Burgeson lowered himself into a spindly court chair and laid his folio on the chief commissioner's desk. "There's no end of rushing about, it seems. I really ought to be back to my train, but, well. The matter of our alien friends came up again."

Sir Adam's expression blanked for a moment, assuming the vacuity of information overload. Then he blinked. "Ah. The Beckworth woman?"

"And her allies."

Sir Adam looked past Erasmus, to his bodyguard. "Seumas, if you could go and rustle up tea for two, please? I think we may be a while." He paused until the stout fellow had left the room. "I've got a session of the defense policy review board at three, but I can give you half an hour right now. Will that suffice?"

"I hope so." Erasmus held his hands together to keep from fidgeting. "They've got more than gold, as I believe I told you; did you have time to read the book?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. . . ." The chief commissioner removed his spectacles and carefully laid them on the blotter in front of him. Gold-rimmed, they gleamed in the harsh radiance cast by the electrical chandelier overhead. "It was very strange. Erasmus, either this is a most remarkable confidence trick, or—"

Burgeson shook his head. "There's more than just books. I've seen some of their machines. Yes, they're very strange. Frighteningly advanced. They have guns that—I've seen a young lady with a gun the size of that pen box, Sir Adam, I've seen it mow down polis thugs like a sewing engine. A battery gun you could fit in your coat pocket."

"Aliens. With advanced technology. How much of a threat to us are they, in your estimate?"

Erasmus spread his hands wide. "I think they're an opportunity, if we handle them carefully."

"What kind of opportunity? And what kind of care do you have in mind?"

"They're in trouble, Sir Adam. Which gives us leverage. My understanding of their plight is admittedly incomplete, but you can rest easy: They are not from the United States and they did not invent these near-magical engines that they use. Rather, they are traders—ours is not the only world they can reach—and they have infiltrated the United States you read about and use it as a source of wealth. Mercantilists, in other words. They have historically been an irritant to their host—smugglers and criminals—and now the host has discovered their existence. Miss Beckstein is entangled in a progressive faction among them, modernizers and democrats if not actual levelers. They recognize the bankruptcy of their former position and would seek sanctuary. In return, they offer to—Miriam's term for it is

technology transfer.

They can stealthily filch the secrets of the United States' engineers and scientists, and bring them to us for development. More: They have for years been training their children in modern management techniques."

"Just so. Very well, how many of these refugees are they?"

"Miriam says two to three thousand, at the outside. Most of them cannot travel to the other world—there are only a few hundred who can—but they're blood relatives. Which suggests an angle, doesn't it?"

Sir Adam nodded. "What are they running from? Enemies at home, or this United States of America?"

"The latter. It appears they were careless and drew themselves to the attention of the authorities there. I have a distinct and unpleasant impression that the US authorities are building machines that can travel between other worlds, for purposes of invasion. In which case—"

"Hmm."

"Indeed."

"What do you intend to do with these people, Erasmus?"

"I think we have room for a couple of thousand refugees, and it's easy enough to be generous under the circumstances. We should keep them isolated and under wraps, of course. The ones who can't world-walk—as they call it—are as important as those who can: Apparently their children may acquire the trait. In the meantime, they can be used to compel cooperation. Sir Adam: I propose to use the world-walking refugees to acquire a library of scientific and technological material stolen from the United States. It may also be necessary to recruit human resources, doctors, skilled professionals, a library of experts: voluntarily if possible, but otherwise—"

"You're talking about abduction."

The door opened: Seumas and a silent palace servant entered, bearing a tea trolley. Sir Adam and Erasmus waited patiently for them to leave; then Erasmus picked up where he'd left off.

"If necessary, and only in service to our war effort, but . . . yes, if push comes to shove. May I continue? I envisage setting up a network of design bureaux and academies around this library of the future. They will act as a shield around this resource, filtering it out into our own industries. The United States is, well . . . it's hard to say, but I think their world is between fifty and a hundred years ahead of us in some respects. We won't close the gap in a decade, or even two or three, because they're moving forward as well. But we can close the gap

faster than the French.

If nothing else, knowing what played-out mines to avoid pouring treasure and sweat into will help us. This is a strategic resource, Sir Adam."

The first citizen nodded, then raised one eyebrow. "You don't need to convince me further, Erasmus: It's preposterous on first hearing but the world is indeed a strange place. But let's see, when this hits the central committee . . . argue me this: Why

you?

Why Propaganda? Why not Industry? Give me ammunition."

Erasmus picked up his teacup. It's rim clattered against the saucer it was balanced on. "Firstly, because they know me. Miss Beckstein trusts me, and she is their figurehead or leader or at least highly influential among them. These people are not beholden to us and we can't hope to corral them if they take fright. Secondly, because I'm

not

Industry. What we learn from these aliens will have effects everywhere—Industry is only the beginning of it. The Schools of Health, for instance, and the Directorates of Agriculture and Transportation—they'll all be affected. The complex I propose to establish will not be building battleships or aerodynes or setting up experimental farms; it will merely provide scientific information on these topics. It is indubitably a subdivision of Propaganda—Information. And then there's the final thing. This, this

Clan,

they are not the only people who travel between worlds. The United States are building time machines and may stumble upon us one day; and there may be others. Our treatment of these refugees will set a precedent for future diplomatic contacts with other worlds—and also our treatment of refugees from elsewhere on this one. Do you really think that hock-fist Brunner, or perhaps Oswald the Ear, would handle the nuances of disclosure effectively?"

Sir Adam's smile was frozen. "Of course they wouldn't. Erasmus, you have convinced me of most of your case, but you're wrong on this last point."

"Really?"

"Yes. Because if these people are as valuable as you tell me, we can't possibly disclose their existence in public. Not now, not in twenty years' time. No, Erasmus. I'm counting on you to reel them in and put them in a deep, padded box—and build your institute and your complex of design bureaus and all the rest of the complicated machinery. We're not going to breathe a word of this to anyone, including the rest of the commission. Not the Peace and Justice puritans—they'll just find a way to use your world-travelers as a stick to stir up trouble. Not the Radicals: I've no idea what they'd do, but it'd probably be as stupid as those land-reform proposals they keep coming up with. And Foreign Affairs: If the Bourbon gets so much as a whisper that they exist, he can make them an offer that would bankrupt our coffers to match. No. This needs to be kept secret, so secret that nobody gets a whiff of their existence. And you're just the man to see that it happens, aren't you?

"These aliens must belong to us—and us alone. Make it so."

The morning after the night before: Mike Fleming jolted abruptly awake to the sensation of the world falling away beneath his back. His eyes flickered open from uneasy, distorted dreams of pursuit, a panicky sense of disorientation tearing at his attention. He glanced sideways beneath half-closed lids; the light filtering in through the thin curtains showed him a floral print hanging on pastel-painted walls, strange furniture, someone else's decor. The jigsaw pieces of memory began to fill themselves in.

Paulie Milan's spare

room. They'd ordered in a Chinese meal, sat up late talking. There ensued an uneasy tap-dance as he—unused to hospitality, living for too long without that kind of life—borrowed towels and bedding, showered, prepared for an uneasy night's sleep. (Which largely consisted of taking off his shoes and pants, but keeping his pistol close to hand and checking out the yard from an unlit window before lying down atop the comforter.) It felt strange to be consigned to the guest room, like a one night stand gone weirdly askew down some strange dimension of alienation.

Don't sleep too deep,

he'd warned himself, only to close his eyes on darkness and open them in daylight.

Well damn, but at least nobody tried to cut my throat in the night—

He was up and standing with his back to the wall beside the door, pistol in hand, almost before he realized he'd moved. Something was amiss. His nostrils flared as he breathed in, then held his breath, listening: not to the sound of someone moving in the bathroom, or clattering in the kitchen, or voices on the radio, talking.

Not.

He'd slept through the normal noises of another person's morning. What he'd noticed was their absence, and it was infinitely more disturbing.

Voices on the radio? Talking?

He could hear voices.

Who—

Mike did a double take and closed his eyes. Tried to visualize the kitchen layout. Was there a—

Creak of a footstep on the landing. Then a tentative voice: "Mike? Are you awake yet?"

His muscles turned to jelly as he sagged, lowering the pistol. He'd been unaware of the tension in his neck and shoulders, the totality of focus, his heart hammering with a flashback to a cheap motel room in Tijuana that stank of stale cigarette smoke and claustrophobia. He pointed the gun at the floor beside him, letting its weight drag his wrist down. "Yeah?"

"We have a visitor. There's coffee in the kitchen. Do you want me to pour you one?"

Coffee plus visitor equals

—

"Yes."

He glanced across the room to the bedside table where he'd left his holster. Coming down from the jittery adrenaline spike, he added, "I'll be down in a couple of minutes. Need to freshen up first."

"Okay." Paulie's footsteps receded down the stairs.

Mike let out a breath, quietly shuddering, still winding down. The radio, the sudden silence, whatever had triggered his ambush reflex—it was all right. Moving carefully, he placed the pistol beside the holster, then picked up his pants from where he'd hung them over the back of a chair.

A visitor

almost certainly meant one of Miriam's relatives. Paulette had admitted knowing a few of them: the ice princess, another woman called Brill. He dressed hurriedly, then slid the pistol in its holster into his trouser pocket, just in case. Not that he didn't trust Paulette—he trusted her enough to sleep under her roof—but experience had taught him not to make assumptions when dealing with the Clan.

He descended the stairs, carefully keeping his left hand on the rail, and glanced sideways through the kitchen doorway. The ice princess, Olga, was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee. She nodded at him coolly. "Mr. Fleming."

The kitchen radio was babbling headline chatter about someone in hospital. His jaw tensed as he stepped inside the room. "Good morning." He noticed Paulette leaning against the kitchen worktop, her eyes worried. "Someone mentioned coffee." Paulette reached out and flicked off the radio as he glanced from side to side. A big leather shoulder bag gaping open on the table, something dark and angular inside it—she wouldn't come here unarmed—slatted blinds drawn down across the window onto the backyard—

"It's right here." Paulette gestured at a mug on the breakfast bar. Mike walked over and pulled a stool out, then sat down awkwardly opposite the ice princess.

"How does it feel to be one of the most wanted people in the world?" he remarked.

"Why ask me? Surely you already know." She kept a straight face, but the chill in her voice made his pulse speed.

"I didn't murder eighteen thousand people."

"Neither did I," said Olga. She took a mouthful of coffee, then put her mug down. "The people who did that are dead, Mr. Fleming. My people took them down. Do you have a

problem

with that?"

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"They didn't stop at detonating bombs in your capital city," Olga added. "They tried to murder everyone who stood in their way. A coup attempt." Her minute nod made his stomach shrink. "They tried to kill me, and Miriam, and everyone aligned with us. Luckily we had a tip-off. They failed; the last of the plotters was impaled yesterday morning."

"Impaled?"

Paulette's expression was rigid.

"Oh yes. After the executioners blinded and castrated them," Olga added, and bowed her head. "My father was killed in the struggle, Mr. Fleming. I'd thank you not to place your

eighteen thousand dead

on my shoulders."

Mike almost asked which faction her father had belonged to; a vestigial sense of shame stilled his tongue for a few seconds. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said eventually.

"But impaling—" Paulette stopped.

"It was no better than they deserved. The traditional punishment for such high treason is to spread the wings of the blood-eagle, then quarter the parts," Olga added. "But that hasn't been practiced since my grandfather's time."

Mike stared at his mug of coffee, and dry-swallowed. This wasn't what he'd expected to hear. "You failed to stop them," he accused, knowing it signified nothing.

"You failed too. So we're even. Failures all round." The silence stretched on for half a minute. Finally Olga broke it. "Why did you call for help?

Mike shuffled on his stool uncomfortably. "Did you find your mole?"

"We have more urgent problems right now." It was an evasion. Olga looked at Paulette. "Thank you for continuing to source provisions for us; it has been more useful than you can know, but there are some new arrangements I need to discuss with you. Things are going to be busy for a while. Mr. Fleming, there have been reports of contrails over the Gruinmarkt. We don't have much time for idle chatter. Do you know anything about them?"

"They've been planning some kind of incursion for at least six months," Mike told her. The secret, divulged, left him feeling naked. "I saw a spec-ops helicopter. This was planned before the bombs went off. They know where all the oil is, and you're a threat to national security. But since the bombs—now—I don't think they'll be satisfied with their original plans."

"Do you believe they'll use nuclear weapons?"

"Will they?" It was Mike's turn to frown. "They already did: that castle up near Concord. The question isn't whether, the question is when and how many." Stripped of the bloody shirt of

eighteen thousand dead,

these events acquired a logic of their own. "They'll kill a lot of people who have nothing to do with your extended family."

"Yes." Olga emptied her coffee mug. "And so, we are taking steps to leave, to put ourselves forever beyond contact with the US government. Those of us with any sense, that is. Some refuse to see the writing on the wall, as you would say. The Clan is breaking up, you know; a generation ago the mere suggestion of an open split would have been seen as treason."

"Where are you going?" asked Paulette.

"You've been there, I seem to recall. On a visit." Olga raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me for not describing it in front of Mr. Fleming. When we go—I am allowed to offer you a payoff in money, or asylum if you are afraid of the authorities here: We look after our friends. But it'll be a one-way trip."

"They'll come after you. They'll hunt you down wherever you run to," Mike predicted.

"Let them try." Olga shrugged. "Mr. Fleming,

I

didn't choose to fight the US government; I'm not Osama bin Laden. Your former vice president, he—well. We have a rule. When we do business with outsiders, we have a rule:

no politicians.

WARBUCKS quit politics, in the late eighties: That's when our West Coast subsidiary approached him—well. Water under the bridge. It was a serious oversight, but one we are in the process of rectifying. My question to you is, what are you going to do now? Paulette tells me your agency has tried to kill you. What do you

want?

I can give you money—we've got more than we know what to do with, we can't take it where we're going—or I can offer you asylum—"

"I want the files," said Mike.

"The. What?"

"Your files on WARBUCKS."

"Huh?" Paulette looked confusedly between them.

"WARBUCKS started this. I wouldn't be here now if I didn't know a deliberate provocation when I saw one. This is all happening because he wants to cover up his past complicity with the Clan, and because the existence of the Clan is now a matter of public record. An awful lot of people are going to die to cover up his secret." Mike's frustration sought a way out. "People who have nothing to do with your nasty little family trade, or with me, or with WARBUCKS. Listen, I don't much care for you. If it was business as usual I'd arrest you

right now

and put you away on racketeering, money laundering, and drugs charges. Oh, and the illegal firearm." He gestured at Olga's bag and she twitched a hand towards it; he shrugged. "But it's not business as usual—probably never will be, ever again. The man who you guys have fallen out with is

running my country.

He's corrupted

my

government, built a secret unaccountable agency with the capability to bypass the national nuclear command authority, disappeared people into underground prisons; you name it, he's done it. He's wiped his ass on the Constitution and it's all thanks to dirty drugs money: not directly, oh no, but you're complicit. I don't care

what

happens to you people—but I swore an oath to protect the constitution of the United States, and it looks like for the past year I've been working for an organization designed from the get-go to undermine it. So I want your files on WARBUCKS, now they're no use to you any more if you're serious about pulling out. I want the dirt. And if you won't give it to me, you're worse than I think you are—and my opinion of you is pretty low right now."

"What are you going to do with the files if we give them to you?" Olga asked slowly.

"Well, that depends." He glanced at Paulette. "I take it your work here is mostly done, or you wouldn't have told me even that much?" He didn't wait for a reply. "I need someone who knows how the press works. And I need ammunition. Someone's got to blow the lid on WARBUCKS before he eats the US government from inside—and I don't see anyone else volunteering."

"But—" Paulette stopped and looked bleakly at Olga.

"What?" Mike glanced between them.

"Do you want to tell him?" asked Olga.

Paulette shook her head wordlessly and reached across to flick on the radio.

"—Cardiac arrest on the way to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Doctors worked for three hours to try to resuscitate the president but he was declared dead at five-fourteen this morning. The vice president is meeting with advisors but is expected to appear at a press conference to make a statement imminently; we understand that Supreme Court Chief Justice Scalia is on his way to the vice president's location to administer the oath—"

"Fuck." Mike stared at the radio. All his carefully considered plans crumbled.

"Fuck."

"That's two presidents in a month," said Olga. "I understand it's a stressful job."

"Jesus fuck."

Paulette looked at Mike reproachfully. "Sorry," he muttered.

Olga was imperturbable: "Do you think your people will care about the misdeeds of KINGPIN's predecessor?"

Mike shook his head. "Fuck. Sorry." He stared at the radio. The presenter was babbling on about previous presidential emergency successions. "He's dead. Why did the bastard have to die

now?"

"What will this new President do?" Olga leaned toward him.

"KINGPIN? He'll—" Mike chuckled weakly. "Oh dear god."

"WARBUCKS was KINGPIN's assistant, wasn't he?" Paulette blinked, her eyes watery. "Back in the Ford era, or something. They're more like partners, were more like partners, the past couple of years. Partners in crime—politics, not the Clan. KINGPIN is going to be just like WARBUCKS, only without the personal history."

Mike nodded. "You had a handle on WARBUCKS. KINGPIN is the same—only you've lost your handle."

"Oh." Olga sat motionless for a few seconds. "This fact needs to be reported."

"What are you going to do?" Mike asked.

"I'm going to tell certain people." Olga flashed him a bright, brittle smile. "I'm going to see if I can get you those papers—if you still want them. Then those of us with even half an ounce of self-preservation are going to run away very fast. . . ."